Perfectly Stupid Ideas
by Fareeq
Summary: Shaun never wanted a relationship. When some hooded loon literally drops into his life, he starts rethinking it. But then again, there's several odd things about him that don't make sense. Like his ridiculous penchant for Twilight. M for later chapters.
1. The Knight Allegory

The library of the University of Chicago was mostly devoid of students, most if not all of them getting ready for their weekend. Some of the alumni were already submerged in parties, most definitely too drunk to care about books and avoiding any activities that required using more than two neurons at a time.

Such was not the case for one Shaun Hastings as he flipped through a rather large tome, skimming through the words to find the right material for his thesis. No, adding more pages for that extra credit the teacher had told them could be acquired was not necessary in his case, but Shaun had always shot for the top and this would not be the exception. Adding a few details to his twenty-five page work was just him striving for top of the class.

Rebecca called it being an anal overachiever.

Regardless, there was quite nothing compared to spending your evening in the quiet solitude of a library, searching in books and clips what you could have found in the internet. Except he didn't fancy copying and pasting some other poorly done paper and getting a mediocre grade, thank you very much.

The speakers in the library told anyone still in it that there were five minutes left until closing time. Shaun gave a gruff hum and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, lightly pushing the glasses upwards. Setting them right, he checked his watch and frowned because indeed, he only had five minutes. Packing his notes and laptop in his book bag, he swung it over his shoulder and walked towards the reception, books in hand. He left them there to be properly organized, as should be, and exited the building, wrapping his scarf tightly about his neck. Sure, Britain's winters were quite famous, but Chicago had the gall to kick those away and remind Shaun of how very much he hated the cold.

Walking as quickly as possible and wondering if Americans found it funny to name this the windy city (and not exaggerating one bit about it), he made his way towards the subway, dodging cars because he still had things to live for and he had to turn that thesis in and check his grade (which would be the best, if he could say so himself).

Several minutes later had him sitting down on one of the carts and frowning at his cell phone as Rebecca told him that the minute he arrived to their shared (cheap) apartment, she would whisk him away to some party or other. His watch informed him that it was twelve, and thus, too late for any sort of activity except sleep (or attempt to in his case). The subway halted but he paid no mind, texting Becca back that he'd rather not, he was tired, leave me alone, kthxby.

Closing his eyes and praying that she wouldn't poke fun at his lack of social (not to mention sexual) life, Shaun leaned back on the sub's wall. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to find he wasn't alone in the cart.

A man in a white hoodie and faded jeans sat at the end. Most of his face was concealed, but he could see a thin scar on his lips, which were chapped and dry. Upon further inspection, the man himself looked unhealthy and disheveled. He was pale, even with the light tan he had and he seemed thin to the point of seeming gaunt. His shoulders were slumped and his chin rested on his chest. For all Shaun knew, the man could be close to death.

The oddest thing about him, though, was that he was barefooted. His legs were splayed and showed the soles covered in mud and dirt and he could guess grease and grime. The British wondered if maybe he was some hapless hobo. Dying hobo? He made a face. Now he was curious, in the way one is curious about a dead animal on the road.

The cart began to slow down and stopped. Shaun rose to his feet and paused, still looking at the man as the doors slid open. He was about to step closer to him and ask the bloke if he was fine, if he needed to go to the hospital. Shaun decided against it. It wasn't his business anyway.

As he made his way out, two guys bumped into him, both in 'gangster' getup. Marvelous luck there, chap.

"Watch where you're going motherfucker!" Thug one exclaimed. How literate, he thought.

"Excuse me, beg your pardon." He practically elbowed his way out and hurried his steps, the jeers and whistles from the two echoing behind him. Absentmindedly, he wondered if leaving Mr. Hobo with those two was appropriate.

Then again, he'd rather Mr. Hobo get harassed than have himself knifed.

* * *

Mr. Hobo didn't come to mind until weeks later.

Yet again, he was walking towards the apartment, happy to get back because Rebecca wouldn't be there and he'd actually get to sleep early (not that one in the morning was early, but oh well). On top of that, his thesis had come out not only perfect, but it had received the highest marks.

He gave a start when he thought he'd heard something. Probably the wind. Wonderful Hastings, you're hallucinating. He jammed his hands deeper into his pants pockets and curled slightly in on himself as he walked, book bag hanging off of one shoulder. He was about six blocks from the warmth of his room when he heard the scuffling of shoes.

On the next corner, a group whistled at him and he stiffened. His day had been too good hadn't it? Yes, karma did tend to adore exploding in his face then turning to bite his arse. Just walk the longer route, ignore the guys and-bloody hell they were jogging up to him.

"Hey, man, we ain't gonna hurtcha... We just wanna talk, negotiate a few things through. S'pretty cold and we need some funds." The bloke smirked. Shaun only frowned as the other three chuckled at this.

"I'm quite sure you need funds, but the thing is I'm not some bloody ATM, so if you'll excuse me, we could all go our ways and pretend this never happened." He was about to turn and just leave, because this all reeked of trouble and losing things he'd worked too bloody hard to lose when they circled him, closing his exit somewhat.

"Aw, c'mon man, don't be like that. Now, if you just fork over your cash and that laptop, m'sure we could just go along just like you said. How's about it?" He asked with the bloody sneer more evident in his face.

"Well that sounds just about-." Shaun bolted. He elbowed two out of his way and ran. Well, he had tried to negotiate and it didn't work. Ignoring their shouts and listening only for their continued footfalls behind him, he ran like hell itself was on his heels. He narrowly avoided getting hit by a taxi but kept going, because he liked his life, and he liked his money. Even a foreigner like him had become familiar with this town's reputation, besides, and he wasn't going to take chances.

He ran until he had a stitch in his side, until pain shot up his legs with every step, and even then kept going until he hit a dead end in a dark alley. Panting, he glared at his would-be assailants. He reached for his phone, only to realize that he'd left it on the library desk where he'd been working, and it wasn't in his back pocket like it usually would be. That left him with his laptop... might make a good bludgeon. He slid his book bag off his shoulder as they approached and held it up like he was going to hit them with it. "Don't come closer."

One of the thugs laughed. "Ooh, what's he gonna do with that bag? Hipster fag probably doesn't have much of a swing." The other one, who looked to be just a little on the dim side, laughed with him. It sounded like he was mentally retarded.

"It doesn't take much of an impact to snap a rib. After all, why would I go for the head? You've probably already been dropped on it as a child." He couldn't stop himself from talking, could he? He just -did- it.

The thugs stopped laughing. The dumb one bared capped teeth. "Get 'im."

Ah. Now he was royally fucked, wasn't he? Where was Becca when he needed her? Always shoving it in his face on those other two times she'd saved his arse and this time he'd be able to shove it in her face that this time, she hadn't been there. Then again, this was a depressing thought because it meant he couldn't save himself for shit and he had to be saved by a woman of all things.

They advanced on him, one of the three brandishing a knife when someone fell right in front of him. As in, literally just fell out of bloody nowhere like the sky had just spat him out. He stared at the man as he straightened up, wearing (and here his eyes widened in recognition) a white hoodie.

"Isn't four on one kind of unfair?" He asked in a playful tone, arms raised in a questioning gesture.

The British was now positive karma thought this to be a rather hilarious 'knight in shining armor' allegory. But then again, he wasn't about to complain. Maybe the bloke knew kung-fu or something? Please let him know something to defend both their arses.

"Hey! This ain' your business, fag! Get out the way and we'll let you go." The leader snarled. Hoodie only gave a light chuckle.

"Now see, I'd do just that, except it looked like you were about to mug this poor fellow. I don't think he'd appreciate that, so how about you guys go instead?" His tone was still playful, almost teasing, not to mention idiotic in Shaun's humble opinion. Wait for it, wait for it…

The thugs laughed. Well what did he expect! It was four against one now! They were still on the receiving end! Shaun was about to remark on this with a hissed whisper but stopped short. He hadn't noticed it, but the man was slowly backing up -sideways-, using himself as a sort of cover, making Shaun move backwards and into the right side of the alley where freedom would just be a matter of running.

So maybe he wasn't that stupid. Not to mention that while he did this, he kept egging the men on, all of them too dense to notice that by now, they'd finally gone completely around them and Shaun was home free.

"Oi! He's tricking us! Shut the fuck up and just kill 'im!" Bugger, there went their cover.

"Run." He heard the other whisper. He received the short image of his profile and saw, for the briefest moment, a scar on smirking lips. He didn't think anymore about it and just ran like hell.

* * *

Gasping and almost on his knees, Shaun kept looking back to see if he was being followed. Nothing, nada, zero, zilch and all those other things used when you found yourself nice and safe.

Well, that was a pity. Another chance for him to socialize and yet again spoiled by the slums of the Windy City. Damn you, Chicago! While he kept thinking these and other sarcasm laden thoughts (a service he provided) he bumped into someone and screamed. Not like a girl mind you, that was just unmanly.

"Do you have the habit of falling from the bloody sky!" He snapped, glaring at the hooded man. He gawked. "How did you..?" He looked back and then at him, then back again. Oh yes, the alleyway was just about to spit the answer at him.

"Parkour tends to get that impression on people. Am I getting a thank you?" The git was smirking. The hooded man received a spectacled glare.

"What for? Walking around rooftops like some ape?"

"How about for saving your life? Just a thank you'd be nice. Or maybe I could walk you back to your apartement. You know, make sure you don't get in trouble again." Just a few moments and he was getting on his nerves.

"Yes, of course, whatever flies your way." Shaun grumbled. He walked towards his apartment, just a scant four blocks away. "So tell me, do you make a habit of jumping out of nowhere and saving people out of the kindness of your heart?"

The other chuckled, walking close to him, the air from his nose puffing out in little clouds of humidity. "Nah, you just seemed desperately in need of being saved. I'm Desmond Miles. Do I get your name or do I give up like with my thank you?"

There was a frown at this and he walked a bit faster, looking forwards. Their shoulders would brush sometimes and maybe the redness of his cheeks and the hurrying of his heart had nothing to do with him running in cold weather. "Shaun Hastings, nice to make your acquaintance, I suppose."

"Well, Shaun, what has you walking around so late?" The git was trying for a conversation in a suave way, the bastard. Thinking he was all cool attitude and good-looks. What? He could admit to other men being handsome! Like admiring a piece of art in a museum! Nothing wrong with that!

"Had to finish some schoolwork." Was his curt reply. He stopped at the front of the steps of his apartment and smiled at him. "Now, if you don't mind, this is where we split. It was nice meeting you, Miles-"

"Desmond."

"Right. If you don't mind I'd appreciate it if you made a hasty retreat to whatever it is you do, I wouldn't be too fond if my roommate found you here with me. She has these silly hallucinations that I'm-."

Warm lips on his own had him shutting up. It was nothing spectacular like all those romance novels he didn't read said it was. Just a press of lips and he could feel the scar. They separated, the British gawking at the hooded man.

"Have a nice night, Shaun."

When he entered the apartment, making sure that Becca was nowhere in his proximity, he chanced a glance through the window out looking the lamp post where he'd just received a kiss from some total stranger.

He swore he wasn't smiling when he saw Desmond three lampposts down looking up at him.


	2. Nosy Wenches

_A/N: I don't know what to say. I mean, I'll be honest, I didn't expect such a positive response from you guys. This story was born while chatting with wonderful Vince and our joint disappointment of where the vampire lore has gone. With Desmond's new, more active role in Brotherhood and its unfortunate end, this story became possible for me to write it without affecting the character's personalities. It even helped me map out Shaun's personality better (even though I still have a hard time with him). I'm not really sure where this will go, or for how long, but I do know this. I thank you, very much. As long as I have one person eager for the next chapter, I will do my best to keep it up._

_I know, tl;dr. In short? Thank you so much for the reviews. I'll try to update ASAP and Assassin's Creed and its people don't belong to me. On with the show!_

* * *

Winter vacation came and went, filled with nights full of partying people, trips to hometowns and home countries, meetings with aunts and uncles and great-great grandmothers that still pinch your cheeks. Celebrations of a jolly, fat man and the birth of a certain religious figure passed, either in the company of loved ones or alone. The New Year arrived as well, everyone opening bottles of cider, eating grapes, and the ritual kissing of someone special at exactly twelve along with other festive activities.

Unfortunately, school has this thing where you have to come back, no matter how comfortable you were at your granny's or that person you met at some other place or how much fun you're having. School and work don't care, don't wait and demand you present yourself on Monday sharp.

Shaun had to travel quite the distance back after a rather awkward family reunion to which he swore next year he wasn't going to attend (just like he'd swore last year). There was a reason he was studying abroad after all. While he was stuck listening to his mother's complains about menopause and his grandmother's (why was the woman still alive!) whines about cold bones, he couldn't help but think about Mr. Desmond Miles.

Hadn't he seemed different when he'd seen him on the cart? Maybe he'd gone through withdrawal? This troubled him as he drank a cup of _real_ Earl Grey and cut off his nephews' noisy games and general chaos caused by the little devils. But he didn't have the haggard appearance when he'd dropped from the sky, he mused, as he sat outside watching the fireworks display and afterwards, absentmindedly hugging every single person that had come to the Hasting's Christmas Celebration (an enormous event made possible by every neighbor in their street though he still wasn't sure why it had their name in it).

But it _was_ the same person. He wore the same hoodie, same pants and that _scar._ Cutting straight through those smirking lips, full and teasing, somehow perfect as it marred him. The scar itself seemed to have him even more perplexed than its owner. How did he get it? Was he in a fight? Did someone bite him? This was contemplated as he tried his best to ignore the overly talkative man besides him, an Arab, maybe from Iraq, Kadar, if he remembered right. His brother was fast asleep and there was no way to politely tell the younger to please shut up.

And then there was that thing about _kissing_. Miles had kissed him, Hastings, a complete stranger, had bid him goodnight, and was still looking up at his apartment when he'd gone in. It was inconvenient, really, because every time he'd see someone kiss on New Year's Eve he'd think of that kiss under the lamp post. He would remember the warm breath before, the press on his own lips, the scar (again with the bloody scar), the smile after they parted and his eyes, confident that they'd somehow meet again.

This made another question spring up (as if he needed more). How in bloody hell where they going to meet again! They hadn't exchanged phone numbers, email, facebook, twitter, _anything. _Sure, the man knew his address, but he didn't think he'd come strolling up the stairs, knock on his door and ask if he wanted to go out and have a cup of coffee (as friends, obviously)!

Oh well, he thought morosely, yet again absentmindedly performing a task like pushing the keys to his apartment in the lock. At least it'd been somewhat pleasant.

He was promptly pulled into the apartment. And viciously too. He almost tripped on the carpet, half-dragged his bags in with him and was very close to coming in acquaintance with the carpet he'd just tripped on.

"Hello, Becca. I'm fine, thank you _so much_ for asking. I'm sorry I didn't bring you anything as wonderful as being half tossed into my own apartment. Maybe a nice kick or a punch in the face would do, but knowing you, you'll probably whine and ask for something a bit more ostentatious." His tone of voice was cheery. Please ignore the overflowing sarcasm and wittiness.

Rebecca Crane was smiling very much like a maniac. Sometimes he wondered how they became friends of all things. Oh, right, life debt. "Man, you've _got_ to tell me his name. He's _gorgeous_ as hell. Came at least _twice_ to check if you'd come back."

Shaun froze. "What?" He hoped his face wasn't as red as he felt it. Or his ears, for that matter. Oh blimey, how he hated it when his ears blushed of all things. He blinked, staring at her, waiting for more details and wondering if they were talking about the same man he'd just given up on.

"Tall, dark and handsome with a scar on his lips, remember? The guy always came sometime around eight asking if Shaun Hastings was available." She was positively preening now. "Did Shaunikins finally decide to come out of Narnia? Because seriously, if you haven't, I'll tap that."

Ladies and gentlemen! Shaun Hastings with his World Renowned Gold Fish Impersonation! Watch as his eyes boggle from behind his glasses! Astound yourself with the perfect way he copies the fish's opening and closing of its mandible!

"He came _here_!" Now he was blushing for sure. The apartment's heating was obviously the cause of this.

"Oh hell yeah, it's what I've been telling you. I think he'd be great for you. He's nice, to start. You know, not a sarcastic prick like _someone_ I know. And he's handsome. Anyone'll be jealous of you, myself excluded of course, because this is your first gay experience-"

"I'm not gay!"

"-and it'd suck if I interfered or something." While she spoke (and Shaun tried to protect his virility), she began pacing around the small living room, waving her hands about. "I bet he's _great_ on the rack. I mean _parkour_? You have any idea the muscle, not to mention the type of sharp mind and _balls_ you've got to have to practice that sport? You got real lucky."

Shaun gave a deep sigh and adjusted his glasses. He marched to his room, head held high as Rebecca followed after him, and then proceeded to lock himself up in his room while the horrible wench pounded on his door. As he began calmly unpacking his things and placing them neatly where they were supposed to be, he couldn't help the smile on his face, or how his heart fluttered, or the light heat on his cheeks. Really, the apartment's heating was terrible!

Rebecca wouldn't stop badgering about who Shaun's mystery man was and Shaun wouldn't stop artfully dodging or changing the subject (she had the attention span of a goldfish, after all). What little vacation time they had in January was now gone and he found himself in his library morning job. He could always count on his job for silence and peace, and he could think as much as he wanted without the constant chit-chat that was Crane. It also provided with a chance to maybe sneak-a-peek at Miles ("Desmond" his mind would remind him, and with his tone of voice too).

No such luck. Three weeks passed and still no sign of him.

"Maybe your face scared him away." Rebecca suggested as she ate some vegetarian _thing_. It looked like it would move at any moment. "Or your attitude, 'cus hells if I know you've got a wonderful way of making people feel special."

The Brit glared at her, turning from some newscast about several mauling attacks by some animal around their region. "Hilarious, Rebecca, truly, is this how you pick men up? By degrading them? No wonder you never have one man for more than one night."

"No, see, those're called one-nighters. But you wouldn't know about those, would you?" She gave him this pompous sneer that he wanted to swipe off her face with his plate.

"Oh, belt up." Shaun huffed and turned back to the news with the woman laughing in victory. Stupid cocky wench.

Eventually, his good mood turned sour as the days passed and still no signs of the bloody git. The only positive thing was that at least Becca was being sympathetic now and was trying to find out anything she could about him.

And then he remembered that Becca could really find _anything_ about anyone in rather dubious, not to mention illegal ways and he told her immediately to stop. After about two hours of a heated argument (in which the techno geek began singing at the top of her lungs mid-argument), she finally gave in and agreed not to do anything dangerous.

He still kept a careful watch on her, regardless.

After January ended and February came in, Shaun gave up. There was no reason to keep up with this childish hope in meeting him, and anyway, it wasn't like he'd been eager to have a reunion with the parkourist. Plus, he didn't feel broken hearted at all that was stupid.

"Oh c'mon Shaun," Rebecca was currently trying (read failing) to cheer him up as they finally finished their last class (she'd insisted he take an advance computer class with her for the extra credits. He'd stupidly agreed because it fit his evening schedule). "I'm sure he's searching for you, just like you're waiting for him. It's romantic though isn't it? You, the hopeful virgin-"

"R-Rebecca, I'm not a virgin!"

"-Him, the one to finally pull you out of your glass closet-"

"Would you stop it with the gay jokes!"

"- and then the both of you meet under the snow and share a warm kiss! The very picture of a romance novel!" She sighed as they exited the main building. This is Becca in fan girl mode. Be sure to keep a twenty mile radius away from her for your own safety.

He didn't want to hear her. At all. Tuning her out as he usually did when she began these ridiculous rants was simple with a simple rub of his eyes. He now had some heavy assignments but nothing he couldn't handle. He began systematically ordering them by level of importance, due dates and size. The Brit smiled quietly to himself and blinked when Becca's chatter was absent in the background.

"What?" He asked, turning to look at her. She was looking up at the building. "Cat finally got your tongue? Those things on the sky are clouds, Rebecca, and what's falling is called snow. Now, why don't you-." Something interrupted him by deciding to _fall from the bloody sky_.

Of course he didn't scream like some woman, this was previously discussed! Rebecca on the other hand gave a whoop of delight and whatever fell from the sky spoke up.

"Sorry I startled you. Do you scream every time someone scares you?"

Shaun stared up from his spot on the floor (because Becca had very obviously pushed him) up at the man he'd yet again recently given up on and stammered (falls hurt the brain, you know).

"Y-You! You, you git! You barmy ceiling monkey! You think you can simply drop down from bullock's know where! Are you off your trolley! No, really, tell me, because every time I've met you, you fall from the bloody sky, you overzealous prat!" A rant was this? Oh no, it was him simply telling Miles 'Hello, chap! How've you been! Holidays all right?'

"Hi Shaun." That was it! He practically told the man to bugger off and he just _smiles_ like he, like he… "I know it's weird, but I missed you. I thought I wouldn't see you again." He was blushing a bit, toeing the ground anxiously. Becca watched this all with an enormous shit-eating grin. He was left somewhere in the middle with his face burning and his throat clogged up.

"Shaun's missed you too!" They both turned to look at the woman with the glint in her eye that informed everyone in the vicinity that a plan had formed in that deranged mind of hers. "As a matter of fact, he was moping all week long because you didn't come see him!"

"Did he now?" Have the earth swallow him. Sometime _today_ would be wonderful. He was about to open his mouth, snap that it wasn't true because the goddamn arsehole was _smiling bloody again _when the geek herself broke in quickly.

"Yes! You know, I think you owe him now. You practically left him hanging, Desmond right? How about making it up for him?"

Wide brown eyes turned to glare at her and tell her to _put a sock on it_ when he answered with a nervous "You think he'd accept going on a date with me?" Now he was staring at the bloody moron and the weather was doing things again because his face (and his ears) felt hot. A date! A date! A gloved hand slapped over his mouth at break wrist speed and he tried (read failed again) to pry it off.

"Hell yeah! Friday good?" He glared daggers at her. Could someone else drop from the sky! Now! Because now he felt like his legs were giving away and his heart was doing its absolute best to rams its way out his chest.

"Eight sound good?" The number you're calling is out of order. Please try again at some other time when the recipient's soul is in its proper place. Or maybe in some other dimension when his witty remarks are not hampered down by a strong, gloved hand. Of a woman of all things. He was really pathetic wasn't he?

Becca merely smiled from ear to ear. "Eight's _perfect_. He'll be hot and ready to go"

That's when he turned to look at him, finally, because he wasn't just painted there or like he was just some statue with ridiculous embarrassed faces every two seconds. "I'll see you on Friday then. It was nice seeing you again Shaun, even if Becca did all the talking." The sound of his chuckle would be forever engrained in his memory (for perfectly normal reasons!)

She let go but only after the barmy monkey had slipped himself away over the building's roof (with commentaries on his strength and arse by Becca). At this point, she looped an arm over his shoulder, smirked and asked "Aren't I an _awesome_ friend?"

The geek received no answer as he hurriedly walked towards his apartment. No reply was given as she kept pestering him for thanks on the trolley. Neither did he respond when she teased him all the way up the stairs. And it felt very satisfying to slam the door in her face, even if it was slightly eclipsed by her roaring laughter. As he sat on bed and rubbed his eyes again, he couldn't really deny this time that he was smiling from ear to ear with his heart doing summersaults in his chest.


	3. Three Date Rule

_Another chapter and again many thanks because I swear I came all over myself at the number of reviews I received (and while comparatively minimal, have in mind this is my first story. Yes, I'm that silly). School has started but thankfully, I have a one hour brake I can use, so don't despair, I'll keep posting if albeit far not as often the reason being I want the chapters to be longer. On top of that, there is an announcement I'll place at the end, because your opinion matters to me quite a lot~. I'll be trying to update either every Friday or every Saturday and I would also like to know who is willing to toil and labor through beta-testing this monster (my personal nickname for PSI)._

_**I want to thank Jackie, hootpoot12, koreto-chan, Hyarou, OpiumPoppy, CloakedUnkown, krazykiwi16, TheNinjaVampire, NeverLookBackSamurai, Jackyll, SoundofImagination and especially, Karaii, who's reviewed both chapters and Masked Hatter who left an especially huge comment that made me blush at the girth of it (teehee, girth).**_

_Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed and their boys are not mine. I merely use them for my sick and twisted enjoyment._

_

* * *

_Have you gone to a date? I'm not talking about going out with your friends, or those nice family outings. Oh, _hell no_, I'm talking about an actual date. And not even with the cute guy from History 1301 you've seen and talked to at least once either, I mean a total stranger that you have met only three times and thus, you only have a name and tiny details. Now that we're fully into the situation, you can guess how Shaun felt Friday evening. He was just about ready to start pulling his hair and smash things, very a la Hulk (although this is a bad comparison. Hulk could destroy a city if he felt like it. The biggest thing Shaun could do was throw the microwave out the window because like hell he was going to throw the plasma screen). He didn't know what to wear, he had no idea what they would talk about, and he didn't know if the three date thing applied here, what with Desmond's sudden disappearances into nothingness.

Rebecca in the meanwhile was having the time of her life watching the history student quietly panic. While most people trembled, paced, rambled and finally broke into a sweat (or tears), Shaun tended to go into a sort of 'Oh my fucking God' catatonic state. He'd stiffly go about normal activities, would become unnaturally silent and would zone out, as if the previously mentioned panic was taking place in his head.

"Shaun, man, c'mon, _calm down_." She tried, although her voice carried on her mirth. He only turned to glare at her momentarily and kept going with his research. How he didn't get whiplash was beyond her. "You can glare all you want but it's not going to change the fact that it's almost seven. He's going to knock on that door any minute now."

If looks could kill, Rebecca would have been shot, poisoned and mauled all at the same time. "Why thank you, Rebecca! I obviously need the extra pressure on top of my growing apprehension to this 'date' as you call it. Would you like me to send you a detailed list of when each of my projects are due so you can remind me every little instance of the day as well?"

"You'd do that? I knew you loved me! I can bet it'll be real fun to watch you have an aneurysm because of the pressure!"

She dodged a flying book and laughed harder than ever as he tried to kick her out of his room, emphasis on tried. "No, but seriously, stop working on that, I know from a viable source that you don't have anything due until next Wednesday. So get up, take a bath and I'll pick something nice for you to wear. No" She held a hand up as his mouth opened ready to retort, effectively shutting him up, "-I don't want to hear anything. Now go or I'll wash you myself."

With defeat imminent and knowing she wasn't going to quit (and that she was dead serious on the washing part), he grumbled under his breath (it sounding suspiciously like murder plans) and made his way to the bathroom. The shower soothed his nerves a bit and he felt somewhat better when he came out wrapped in a towel. The little confidence boost decided to bail with a well said 'fuck this shit' when he saw what she had picked out.

"I'm not wearing that Rebecca! As a matter of fact, I don't even think those clothes are mine!"

"What are you talking about? Of course they are! Now hurry up and get dressed!" If, unlike Shaun, you pay close attention to Rebecca's foot, you'll see it push what seem to be carton bags behind the dresser.

"No! Most certainly not! I think I'll pick something myself, thank you very much. I don't want to look like I'm draped in, in whatever _that_ is, or look like some cheap whore."

"It's just a shirt and some jeans, Shaun, don't be a pussy."

"A shirt and jeans-! Excuse me if that's not what it looks like! It looks like it'll become my second skin the moment I put it on! And why in the Queen's name is it all in dark colors?"

"…your lights are on."

Shaun sputtered for about five minutes after this. Then the door decided to chime in that it was being knocked and he made the intelligent response of sputtering again. Rebecca gave a sigh, rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion with her hand.

"Look, just get dressed and I'll talk with him to get you some time. And you better put it on or I'll start telling him about Kate."

Shaun's eyes became slits and the grip on the towel made his knuckles turn white. "You wouldn't _dare_."

"Try me." Thus is the tale of how Becca beat Shaun and made him wear what she'd bought- what she'd picked for him from his own closet. She chuckled under her breath as she made her way to the door. He was easy to beat if you knew where to press. Peeking through the eye-hole, still thinking about Shaun having a seizure from his date made her reaction time a bit slower. She frowned in confusion when she saw no one in the hall. But someone had just knocked, right? Shrugging, she opened the door ready to crane her neck to search about and gasped when she almost collided with Desmond.

"Geez man didn't see you there!" She laughed, even if her heart was hammering in her chest. But just a second ago there hadn't been anyone. Maybe he'd slid away for a bit? Yeah, probably got a little nervous and paced about or something, after all, the eye-hole could only show you so much.

He gave a sheepish smile and rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry I scared you. Is Shaun ready?"

"In a minute, he was having a woman fit because he didn't know what to wear, so you can wait inside." She left the door open and walked in. "So where are you guys going to? Nice movie and romantic dinner after wards? It's pretty cliched if you ask me but-"

Rebecca really couldn't help but stare when she turned to look him up and down (known in some cultures as 'snaking') and saw him still standing at the door. He was looking at the thin line of wood that separated the hall and the apartment itself with a frown, almost in annoyance and turned to look at her with another sheepish expression. "Uh, Desmond, aren't you going to come in?"

"Call me old fashioned, but I don't go in a house unless I'm expressly invited." He admitted, hands digging into his pockets in a shrug. She rolled her eyes and, with an exaggerated gesture, took a little bow.

"You may come in, Desmond, he who had the stomach capacity to invite Shaun out." They both laughed at this and he stepped in, looking at the room with genuine curiosity. "So, date places?" Oh hell yes she was going to leech out any and all info out of Desmond. She couldn't wait to tell Lucy!

"I was actually going to ask Shaun where he wanted to go." He smiled and Becca visibly deflated.

"You either got no brain capacity for romance, I hope not, or you're just really mellow."

There was a quizzical smile on his face, like he knew something and he chuckled, although it sounded… off. "Yeah, probably mellow." Rebecca stored that little bit in her mind, because it wasn't only odd, but for a slight minute there, he'd seemed jaded, depressed even. It flashed in his eyes but vanished far too quickly. She was into mysteries and Desmond was proving to be the biggest one yet. Well, if in doubt, ask. And she would have done so if the door to Shaun's room hadn't opened. Damn! The universe conspired to keep her from being informed! Although to be honest it only helped to make her even more curious.

Of course all thought consequently went out the window when she saw how Desmond's eyes light up when they landed on Shaun. Must remember to suppress glee and immediate need to squeal or might shy Shaun away. "You ready?"

To say Shaun was jittery was an understatement. If Becca compared him to a statue she might insult the marble piece. "Yes, yes, now let's leave before she starts babbling. I hope she didn't embarrass you too much, she has a tendency to go for the balls. The jugular seems too quick for her."

As they exited the apartment (with a quick 'Bye Becca!' from Desmond who was now being dragged away by Shaun) and she closed the door, she really hoped the spectacled man had fun. God knew he needed it, and maybe he'd get something to replace the stick in his ass. But for now, she was going to text Lucy.

* * *

"She's really excited for you isn't she?"

Shaun was trying his best to be nice, because this was a friendly outing (not a date, I assure you), and he was the invitee after all. But the bloody git was bloody _teasing_ him from the moment they'd gone into the elevator. And while it was getting his temper, it also helped to pretend he wasn't internally boiling himself to a nice Roast Hastings. Desmond chuckled and shuffled a bit and it occurred the spectacled man that maybe he wasn't the only one about to have a nervous fit.

Now he was bloody leaning into his bloody personal space, with a smirk and that scar seemingly laughing at him. How a scar could laugh at you was beyond him, but _it was doing it._ "Am I making you angry or are you just as nervous as me?"

He snapped. "Oh no, I'm jolly good, Desmond! I am going Queen knows where with a bloody stranger of all things who decided he'd like to kiss me like we knew each other or god forbid we were in some sort of, of _relationship_, but apart from that? I'm bloody well fine, thank you very much!"

They were quietly staring (in his case glaring) at each other for about five seconds (it felt like an eternity) when Desmond smiled from ear to ear and chuckled, although it looked like he was trying his absolute best to not laugh himself stupid.

"You talk a lot. Anyone ever tell you that? I-it's not a bad thing!" He assured, hands in a surrender pose, as Shaun began to sputter indignant noises ready to launch himself into another rant. "Just, well, it's the first time someone talks to me with bucketfuls of sarcasm."

"Well I'm glad I amuse you." Snapping irritably at someone was supposed to be insulting but instead, the moron only smiled. "Anything else you would like? Maybe a punch would do you good."

"How about another kiss?"

Have you ever felt your brain freeze? It's a really odd little process where your brain just tells everyone at work to halt and just wait for your soul to go back to its proper place. After all, if the body keeps going the soul could get lost, or maybe you could turn into a zombie. You know, like om nom nom delicious brains. That's a no because being a zombie is not particularly sexy or attractive (unless you were into that sort of thing, which if it is, you are disgusting).

"A-Absolutely not! W-Why should we kiss? That is inappropriate and, and either way, why would you want a repeat? Maybe you want to prove something to someone or this could even be some cruel joke! Well I'm not falling for it! And either way, only couples kiss like, like that night and we are _not_ a couple, and I _certainly do not_ swing that way!"

"Maybe it's because I liked the way your lips felt."

The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Desmond walked out practically laughing his arse off at the blank expression on Shaun's face. Being red as a tomato could be a probable cause of his laughter. He stopped and rolled his eyes, grabbing Shaun's hands and dragging him out.

"Fine, fine, no kisses, not until the third date, right?"

"What makes you think we're on a date? No, no, what makes you think there will be a third one? We are tentative friends for now, you quack, and you should count yourself lucky that I even got ready for this, because if memory serves me, Becca agreed, not me." Ignore that he's holding your hands, that they're warm, and that he's smiling at _you_ or that he's missing a finger or- Wait what?

"But you came and you even got all dolled up. You look very handsome by the way."

"How charming of you. I hope this isn't part of your clever scheme to bonk me. The kiss was a one off, so don't keep your hopes up for an encore. And either way, if I hadn't attended that would have been rude, and while sarcastic, I still have manners, thank you very much." Insert Shaun Hastings' infamous death glare. How the hell the twat managed to brush it off like the snow falling on them was beyond the Brit.

Desmond let go of one of his hands, the other firmly clasped and being lightly swung between them as they kept walking. Maybe he'd ask later about the missing finger. The moment was nice, one Shaun wouldn't confess to even under severe physical torture. Then Desmond had to hash it by saying with that ridiculous smile of his, "I think I love you. Can I? I'll let you insult me as much as you want. Or we can start slow. Can I like you first?"

"What sort of question is that? Are you barmy? I think you are. Why are all the people I associate with off their rocker? Am I a magnet to strange people? Maybe god thinks it's a jolly good joke to stick Shaun with the nutters, that's probably it." No, he sure as hell was _not_ blushing again. Haven't we discussed manliness before? Yes we have. It's completely manly for two grown men to walk about at night, hold hands and have one flirting at the other...

Yeah, really manly...

He was losing his own argument wasn't he? It wasn't helping that he hadn't even _tried_ to let go. Desmond: 1 Shaun: 0

"So where do you want to go? Or do we keep talking and walking around? I think it's good, we get to know each other this way." And you get to be all touchy feeling with my hand, you wanker.

Shaun stared incredulously. "You _don't_ have a car? So then my friends are cheap and crazy." He's not a gold-digger, but he ain't messing with no broke. Even if said broke was good looking. And well, the parkour thing, while impressive, wasn't a means for Desmond to go around the city, right? _Right?_

A knowing smile again. Did he believe himself master of the universe or something! "I have a bike. It's actually parked in the corner, but I'm not sure if you'll be ok riding it."

"Did you just call me a _nancy?_" Oh, no he didn't! ...he could somehow picture Rebecca snapping her fingers and moving her head. This was horribly, terribly racist of him, wasn't it? It was Becca's fault, in his defense! She had the oddest taste in music! Stealing her mp3 player was a mistake he lamented even now, but she deserved it! Uploading those pictures to her facebook, he had to get back to her _somehow_.

"I just said-"

"We're going on your bloody bike to, to a _park_ or something. I don't know! You could at least take me to dinner! If this is a d-. A d-"

"Date?"

"Yes that, isn't it customary to have dinner before the whole business in-" Insert audible gulp, here. "Well, you know! And stop smiling like that, you wanker, you should feel honored that I'm actually playing along with your fiendish schemes!"

Why did it feel like he was the butt of some joke? The answer (along with a shit-ton of bricks, ninjas they are) came to him when they finally rounded the corner and he looked at the bike in question. It occurred to him that motorcycles had one seat, and thus, they would have to sit together in close proximity. And if parkour meant going very fast, then this bike probably went very fucking fast. Oh, now he got the joke alright, ha ha, real funny, he'd dug his own grave, wonderful humor there, great job lad.

"You ok?" Shaun blinked out of his quiet (seething, angry) stupor and looked at Desmond who was already sitting on the bike, one helmet on his hand, the other under his arm. "We can walk if you want."

Feeling a burst of bravery (and later he'd admit, a burst of plain idiocy), he stomped towards the scarred man and viciously took the offered helmet. He pocketed his glasses in a safe enough place and practically shoved the helmet on his head (which as luck would have it, he hurt himself in the process. Charming Hastings, just charming). "I told you to take me somewhere didn't I? And make it quick!" He sat behind him as far as possible and gripped the back of the seat, glaring at him (even if it was futile. Both of the visors were tinted. Further proof that the fates and the universe were against him).

"You sure about that?" He turned the bike on and it roared to life. It was too late to turn back now, not that he could. Becca would make fun of him for the rest of his life. "She's pretty quick. And, uhm, you should probably hold yourself on me."

"I'm not falling for that! It's only an excuse to get me to-AAAAGH!"

See, sometimes, you don't need to do anything to shut someone up. Making a bike go from 0 to a whooping 30 MPH in 5 seconds flat tends to quiet anyone up with the added bonus of the victim holding on to dear life and, consequently, you become their lifeline, the center of their universe if you will. Shaun was glued to Desmond as the hell-thing sped up and he reasoned it had to be illegal. This was quick? If _this_ was quick then what was fast? He'd done it on purpose to shut him up because he'd seen the git rolling his bloody eyes at him before he'd lowered the visor and had just pedaled the thing into motion. He was going to get him back, you just wait and see! "You alright?" He heard Desmond yell over the roar of the wind.

"Just peachy!" He yelled back. After about two minutes of holding to dear life (not to mention ignoring just how close they were, or the feel of Desmond as he breathed, or when he leaned one way he could feel the muscles underneath the hoodie- ok, stop train of thought, right now) he finally deemed it safe enough to open his eyes. The city lights bled around them, the only sound distinguishable being the roar of the engine as it seamlessly wove around the traffic. Shaun was amazed at just how easily Desmond dodged obstacles and objects, not to mention how smoothly. This was actually soothing if, you know, you forgot that they were so close, or that they were en route to dinner, or that maybe he was actually considering allowing Desmond to be his friend (and only that. Manly, remember? Although..).

Shaun didn't know how much time passed but all too soon they were slowing down and he was actually wishing it didn't (it had nothing to do with the proximity. _At all_. More like the impending horror of this actually starting to shape out like a date). They stopped at a quaint little diner downtown, the people inside visible by the windows. Happy people, smiling people, content couples. Shaun wanted to puke. He wanted to turn tail and run because let's be dead honest, he was close to nervous collapse. He'd never gone on a date except with Kate and that had been disastrous, so this one could turn sour in a matter of minutes. Maybe, after that, Desmond would never want to see him, or talk to him or anything and in a way, that made him even more nervous (synonym: afraid).

"How about we go somewhere else? I'm not that hungry anymore." Or just plain _leave_, he thought wildly, eyes darting from the nice dinner to his pseudo-date. For a minute, he thought the scarred man would start teasing him, maybe even make fun of him. He was surprised when, instead, Desmond turned on the bike, looked him straight in the eye and smiled.

"To be honest, I already had dinner. I was hoping you wanted to go somewhere else. If you don't want to be here, we can go anywhere else you want."

"Yes!" Maybe he answered a bit too fast. A bit too dramatic too. For Chrissake's he was acting like some goddamn woman! Breath in, chap, grab a hold of yourself. While you're at it, take another deep breath because the limey twat just burst ahead again. He felt like he was stuck on a flytrap. As much as you try to fly away, you're stuck as close as possible; your life depends on this. The contradiction here being that if he didn't hold on he might slip and broken heads were a no no. Haven't we discussed zombie status as well before?

Regardless of his... behavior, or the close contact that would make anyone blush, Shaun was enjoying this. The speed, the weightless sort of freedom brought on by a two-wheeled motor, completely different from a car, or a bicycle. The air becoming hard, tangent and sharp, like glass against exposed skin, cuts deep inside but it makes you feel _alive._ And maybe this date thing wasn't so bad. Maybe this Desmond guy, _maybe_, they could have a nice friendship. Maybe something more, maybe, who knew. Brown eyes closed at that thought, because for the first time in the whole night, it didn't sound that bad.

* * *

Their first date would be summarized as follows. Shaun had been adamant about being seen in public. Desmond had seemed to understand and had taken him to a quiet place, a park with a great view and a nice little lake. They talked there, no complications, no strings, just words and common interaction which Shaun found himself terribly out of practice (having Becca as his only social contact was jarring). For every sarcastic comment the history major had, the scarred man had a joke, some witty show of flippant nonchalance. It was nice, having someone listen and laugh, not make a face at you and call you an asshole (thank you, I'll be here all week). They shared another kiss, though this time more cautious, a tidbit less conspicuous (Desmond insisted they could use him being Italian as an excuse to a kiss in the cheek. He was further impressed when the man began fluently making his point in actual Italian). Bonus points were added when Shaun tried discussing several historical occurrences and Desmond easily followed through.

"What? Did you live through it or something? You sound like some old man relieving old memories." He snapped, but there was no sour tone to it.

"I did. Not as nice as it seems." He'd answered. Shaun wasn't sure why he felt this was said with no humor, even if it was accompanied with a smile.

They went to a bar afterwards, after much probing from Desmond (he should have said whining, lowers his man points a bit, ha!) Two guys having a drink, nothing wrong with that. Except for the fact that Shaun had zero alcohol tolerance. Well, that was an exaggerated thing to say, but after his fifth beer he felt like a nice, warm idiot. Desmond, he noted with slurry anger, hadn't drank a thing. The other said it was him being designated driver. The bespectacled man called it date rape tactic. What with how completely smashed he was, the idea actually sounded inviting. His body though, being the goddamn nancy it was, decided it was high time to bail on him and he passed out. He woke the next morning with a throbbing headache (not the throbbing he expected, by the way), a laughing Rebecca, and a text message telling him they could meet up again if he wanted. Fuck yes he did.

The remainder of the week he texted with Desmond, but only because the man send him a message first! It was... strange, having someone inquire about his day, ask if he was alright, be genuinely interested in his activities, so on and so forth. At times, he would look up at the buildings, some tiny (emphasis on the word, if you will) hope in him thinking he would catch a glimpse of the scarred man, but no such luck. Although one time, he did see from his window a white blur go from one roof to another. Desmond said he wasn't in the vicinity but had strangely warned him to stay indoors.

_Don't go out_ was the only thing he'd texted.

To his horror, Becca had gone and tattled on Lucy. This had the blonde come over with a knowing smile and a shaking head. "I thought you were always saying you were straight."

"I had that thing with Kate!"

"One time thing, man. Didn't even get to first base, so she doesn't count." Rebecca had a thing about going for your balls, if you remember. Jugular? Fuck no, she left you alive, in pain and scarred for life. The worst part? She was being _nice_ with this comment. She still had quite a lot of ammo for worse emotional wounds.

"She's right on that, Shaun." Oh sure, team up on the poor hapless bloke here, thank you. He raised his hand in an inverted peace sign and she laughed. "So who's the lucky guy that managed to thaw your heart out?"

"Desmond Miles! The hunk's got junk!" Becca piped up for him.

"Rebecca, can you let the adults talk here? Is it so hard for you to shut your trap for more than five seconds? Or are you really that childish?" They didn't really get to discuss anything else after that because of the nasty scuffle that came afterwards. Maybe if they'd paid attention, they would have seen Lucy's shocked face. There might have been recognition there.

The second date is as follows. As now seemed usual, the twat attempted to give Shaun a heart attack by appearing, without a sound and out of bloody nowhere right behind him as he exited the library (he failed, by the way). He apologized like always and was called a lunatic which he shrugged off easily, normal, normal. Except for the invitation to go out and take a walk. Which they did, and it was nice and calm and normal. Until shit hit the fan. Actually, no, shit did not hit the fan, the previous statement is added for amusement and over exaggeration, really, shouldn't you be used to this by now? Almost five thousand words and the snark still amazes you? You should feel ashamed, really.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand or the action that has already transpired, what have you. They had a nice chat again, and Shaun was feeling a little less queasy (which meant he was less likely to vomit himself stupid). They actually now had something to talk about. Turns out, Desmond had a personal adoration for history, something about holding on to the memories of the world. This trait greatly impressed the historian because on top of his accurate knowledge of dates, locations and personas, he had actual _priceless artifacts._

_"_You're not pulling my leg here? Not another ploy is it? Because I think I might bend this time." To bloody hell with dignity, these were _real_ you-don't-ever-get-to-see-them-in-your-bloody-lifetime-much-less-touch-them artifacts. Hell, he'd wear a dress to see them (maybe not a dress. Oh, who was he kidding, of course he would)!

Desmond chuckled. "No joke. Just tons of family heirlooms, in good shape of course, but we could check them out anytime. You can keep whichever you like best, if you want."

"Oh now I know you're trying to get in my pants. Keep up the good job, you might succeed." He raised the paper cup with the coffee Desmond had insisted on paying for him in a cheer and he bloody laughed, just like always. The idea made him shiver, but it was cold anyway, so ha, ninja abilities. He had them.

On the third date was Shaun close to an aneurism. The bloody wanker gave him _the original sketch of the Mona Bloody Lisa._ His reason?

"I'd thought maybe you'd like it. I'm a little fond of it, but I guess you can keep it."

Shaun had never jumped someone in his life. He was British, and the denomination held with it several rules and mannerisms. But when a man trying to woo you gives you _the original sketch of the Mona Bloody Lisa_, you tell all those things to kindly get themselves fucked in the arse and you throw caution to the wind because, are you bloody reading this right? _This is the motherfucking original sketch of the motherfucking Mona bloody Lisa_. He hugged the man without even thinking it twice, everybody be damned to hell and back. This was also kind of a big deal because it marked the first time he kissed Desmond, not the other way around. As he was feeling unabashedly grateful and completely out of his mind _(sketch! Mona Lisa! I think I came_), the kiss turned rather heated after a bit. He didn't know how it started from a simple peck of the lips to full blown making out straight down to second base. Up yours Rebecca! They only stopped half-way through making it to home base when it clicked on Shaun that they were very close to _fucking in his apartment_. He was pretty sure the nasty wench would have a wonderful year with these bits of news but he really wasn't ready to have someone fuck his brains out (or the other way around! After all, he was not going to be the lady in this relationship!). When Desmond left with a quick peck of lips (and a chuckled statement that he'd probably bring more things if it would make the historian a bit more 'active') he fully understood what had just transpired.

They had made out, had almost fucked (he vividly remembered calloused hands under his shirt, hips grinding, tongues dancing… Excuse me, I need alone time) and Desmond had backed off without so much as a complaint (balls of steel, he had to admit the man had them). Did this mean they were a couple? Well, not your garden variety, no, what with Desmond's strange night time schedule and Shaun's sudden sarcasm and acidic comments but they were getting there (if the thirty texts per day were any sign). The steamy dreams afterwards did not help with sexual tension, but it made him accept (grudgingly) that he _did_ have a thing for Desmond and that he wasn't all that upset about it. After all, he'd gotten a first handed experience of just how good a parkourist was with his hands (he couldn't get over the fact that it had only been _second base)_. Becca wouldn't shut up about it for the rest of the week. The only good thing out of this was when Shaun described in graphic detail how this had transpired _in Rebecca's room_. She didn't think it was funny anymore and shut up. Life is good I tell you. Life is good.

* * *

_So sorry, so sorry! I should have posted this AGES ago, but school, and I got sick and, and and *fidget* Not to mention I wanted this chapter to be pretty fucking big. Alright, enough crying and whinning! The thing I talked about in the beggining! I am accpeting ideas. That's right! After chapter four, there will be five 'night-to-night' chapters which show the relationship as it grows before, you know, shit gets real. Top five ideas (mushy, fights, ridiculous, what have you) will be made into chapters and the winners will be given a real quick cameo, not to mention a one-shot of choice. So get crackin' and get me what you'd like. The dead-line is the end of Fevruary, so give your best shot! If you see any errors, feel free to point them out. Ta-dah!_


	4. The Do's and Don't's to Vampire Handling

"Going on for another all nighter? You should rest sometime, Luce. We're lucky we finished early today, you should go with everyone else, enjoy a drink, have some fun."

"I'll be fine, William, not really losing much, not to mention I'll be done early tonight."

"You sure about that?"

"_Yes, _Will. I'm sure."

Dr. William M. a senior attending physician at the University of Chicago's Medical Center and the hospital's Residency Director tended to always worry about her. Lucy was the student with the brightest future after all, but sometimes it got to her and she would have to good naturedly scold him for over worrying for her. Not that he was soft, hell no, he was as stern as there was, but you could count on him when you were stuck on some unknown place, naked and stuck on a telephone booth (intern's true story).She waved him goodbye and craned her neck to make sure he was _really_ gone before she placed down what she was doing and heading for a particular cabinet nobody used.

After taking out a nondescript duffle bag, she made her way to the back where the bodies that were still not identified pleasantly lied in the cold chambers. Peeking about inside and making sure the coast was clear, she placed the bag, along with her clipboard atop a surgeon table and pushed it towards a specific point in the mortuary freezer. She pulled it open and sighed at the body bag there, stretching her neck a bit. She still had Mr. Overfelt to attend to. So young, so fast, so dead, put your seatbelt on, kiddies. The body bag was unzipped and she turned towards the duffle, taking out several things from inside that would seem strange, if not odd; A pair of jeans, an old pair of sneakers, boxers, socks, a black shirt and a worn out white hoodie.

Now, in horror movies, this is around the time where the body ominously rises up and strangles (or eats, if you like zombie movies. She adored them) the poor unsuspecting woman. When she heard the groan, she wasn't startled at all, instead walking towards another of the freezers and pulling Overfelt out, checking his toe tag and making sure he was ready to be moved. He was going to have a nice funeral, she'd heard.

"Not even good morning?" The man croaked, voice raspy as if he hadn't spoken in ages. The cold does that to you.

"It doesn't count when your morning constitutes of seven pm, Desmond."She answered back with a sly smile and turned to see him giver her half a glare.

He looked like he'd come out of a horror movie, what with the blue tone on his lips, the gray tone of his skin and the almost emaciated appearance. She chuckled as he clumsily got out and began dressing himself.

"You're a real comedian, Luce."

"Learned from the best."

"I'm still not sure if that's a good thing." He smiled wryly and she smiled back.

"You hungry?" This was not a nice question, but she had to do it anyways.

"Not much. Let me get the feeling back to my toes and then we can talk about food."

She shook her head and looked skywards, almost exasperated. "You have the most obscure sense of humor, I swear, if you could, you'd joke about bursting into flames from sun exposure."

"Wanna hear a joke about it? It'll be hillarious too, just bang! We all fall down. Then, Count Desmond becomes this thin, charcoaly stick."

The blonde frowned at this as the scarred man chuckled. "_Dad, _not funny."

"Ouch, daughter card already? Alright, alright, I'll stop with the death jokes." He conceded, when the frown was followed by a glare. "How have you been Lucy? Sleeping better like I suggested or put on extra shifts like I told you _not_ to do." Well, if she was gonna pull the daughter card, he might as well pull the parent card, right?

"I'm over twenty one, Desmond, your question is invalid." Yeah, no, not working here.

"Ah, touche. Not fair but well played."

It was strange, she mused. Maybe she was insane, had been since she was seven, taking care of this creature. He couldn't really be called human, not with his frightening nonchalance to the everyday violence, the sudden peaks of apathy. But at times, he would show such uncontained kindness, would protect a stranger, and it would make Lucy that maybe it was just her holding on to what tiny sparks of humanity still clinged to existance.

He sure as hell didn't look human right now, though. Gaunt, skin almost plastered to his bones, those horrid dark, purple bags under his eyes, the eerie way his actions were practically noiseless, like a predator. His _eyes._ They were their real shade, that sharp gold that reminded her of knives, scissors, needles, swords, anything sharp and cutting, but beautiful in its glinting dangerous way. She'd always joked he looked like some oversized, underfed eagle this way. With the clothes on, he looked comical, at least to her, what with them trying not to slide off of his bony hips.

"Are you at least going to tell me where you're headed this time?"

He only gave her that crooked smile he had on when food was involved and slinked out of the morgue. Another sigh, this time with fond exasperation.

* * *

Lucy Stillman was a busy woman. Her pathology internship tended to keep her busy and usually, more than 20 hours inside a freezing room full of dead bodies to which she had to discover when, how and why they had died. Of course, this was just standard job procedure, as her real goal was to study a disease she'd been (cursed, fortunate, terrified, grateful?) lucky enough to find. She still couldn't pinpoint some exact details and her extra shifts would sometimes deter her from her original research, but in time, maybe next year on her residency, she would be able to post her thesis and maybe, find a cure. She had to; she felt she owed the diseased at least that, for all he'd done for her, and maybe, she would allow him to finally rest from all the symptoms it carried with it.

Immortality becomes a pain in the ass after 800 years, if what her patient tells her is true.

How to begin with her patient? I mean, considering him to be one of the world's oldest walking, breathing history textbook. Hell, he could become World Heritage if he wasn't so jaded (and childish. How a man with an approximate life span of 839 years acted _childish_ when the mood struck was beyond her. She preferred it over brooding, though) it's hard to give a good description, more so when he just tells bits and pieces.

Male, of, err, Arabic heritage? He'd mentioned something about the _Third Crusades_, a town then called Masyaf, hell, _Genghis Khan_ but then he'd gone about _Renaissance Italy._ How do you make a jump from the early 1100's to the 1460's? I'm telling you, World Heritage icon (did I mention he was BFF with _the_ Leonardo da Vinci?). Age on tentative 800 something, something years, clinically impossible but real, because she saw him every night, cross my heart, hope to die. Malady started after confirmed infection when he was twenty four (that's a fuckload of years by the way. Ugh, math, as if she didn't get enough of it), but patient refuses to explain exact matter of infection. Symptoms include… well, see this is the hard part. I mean, vampirism isn't something that affects everyone the same, or so she's been told. But then again, she only has two cases, and one of them is _insane_.

Regardless,she had atleast some concrete symptoms. Patient has extreme photosensitivity and sunburns, err, immediately (as in, literally. You know, burst into fucking flames, she's seen this on her Petri dish and she still can't figure out _how_). Light allergy to garlic, but patient confirms this has been since birth (she still remembers laughing herself stupid over this. He wasn't amused). Suffers from Lazarus phenomenon which has allowed subject to keep waking up day after day (after week, after month, after year, after century, etc), but remains in a catatonic almost dead state at daylight. Heart rate reduces to less than three beats _per hour_, brain activity ceases unless he forces himself to stay conscious, breathing becomes close to nil, appearance deteriorates, skin becomes blueish gray and body temperature drops to an unhealthy 82 °F. She's also confirmed a very strange group of chronic leukemia, which completely destroys the blood cells currently in his body, needing to replenish the equal nutrients, minerals and just general composition of it in less than one month (fancy words for he has to feed every once a month or he starts going downhill).

These are all pretty science words for _'Oh My Fucking God, I Found an Actual Vampire I Think I Just Shat Myself_'. If she published a book, she'd win billions.

Desmond Miles, as he was calling himself now, was one of a kind indeed and she still couldn't believe that he'd agreed to let her study him and maybe, find a cure (he'd rolled his eyes at this and had joked that he would become dust if she cured him. She did _not_ find it funny). She owed him as much, she always would. In the process she could maybe cure the other one too (they called him Sixteen. Even Desmond didn't know his name and it was bad considering they'd been stuck together since about 300 years ago).

Pathology had become her passion the moment she'd found out Desmond's… 'condition' might be a treatable ailment, but she was always warned not to keep her hopes up (she never listened). Her goal wasn't to repay back what he'd given her (not enough, trust me) but at the very least, allow Desmond and Sixteen to finally _rest_. Desmond would always compare it to walking in an eternal desert with tiny oasis spread apart, only to be violently devoured by sandstorms and she pitied them both for it, regardless of the more bestial factors of their sickness. That was the rest she wanted to provide, because the real rest Desmond always tended to search for was frightening.

Maybe one day she would find the cure. For now, she hid and took care of them as best as she could.

* * *

"So he was cute, and then?"

"I kissed him quiet. I thought he was gonna punch the old jaw out but he just blushed, said bye and staggered away."

Lucy laughed as she watched Desmond easily balance himself on the railing of the rafters. The old warehouse they used as a house (home, sweet home) was full of these, places the vampire could skitter about when it was still too early to call it a night and he was in no mood to be outside. He was in higher spirits than she'd seen him in years and this made her happy. He'd been moody lately, and it didn't help that Sixteen was going through a tantrum.

"Did you get his phone number? Facebook? Twitter? Email? Any way to get smoke signals to him? I heard that's pretty hardcore now a days."

"Oh, sure, make fun of the old guy. Nah, I know where goes about, his scent's real easy to pick up."

"Desmond, that's known in some places as stalking."

He laughed, taking a leap and vanishing from view. Ah, they were playing again. She kept her ears sharp and her breathing down. He'd taught her how, even how to move without a sound. What came naturally to him had taken her most of her life to learn. "Not really." His voice answered, although it didn't seem to have a direction in particular. "I mean, it's not like I'm going to follow him everywhere he goes."

"That sounds familiar." She felt the shift, the air moving behind her, no sound except for the prickling of her hair at the back of her neck. She spun and clicked her tongue when he caught her leg in his hand with a surprised face. "You should stop that. You're going to give someone a heart attack."

"I'm affronted that you were going to kick me. Doesn't your old man get any respect?"

She hit him in the shin for good measure.

* * *

There was a soft sound, a light clicking she could hear in the freezer. She made a face of disbelief and pulled Desmond out. He stared at her with guilt, the cellphone still in his hands.

"Texting? You were about to be found out because of texting? Centuries of silence, being the alpha male, stricking terror into the hearts of people and _texting_ was going to be your downfall?"

"This is the first time I feal really naked, but to answer your question, I could always kill the witness." He smiled, albeit sheepish.

"Why didn't you tell me it was Shaun? When you said you found this cute British guy and you were actually going on a date, I didn't expect it to be _Shaun. _Of all the British in the world, you chose the one I know. I feel like that song."

He watched her rub her temples with an irritated frown. He couldn't help but smile. "Stacy's Mom?"

"Except it's Lucy's Dad."

He burst into laughter.

"I'm going to kill you if I have to call Shaun stepdad."

"We're not that close. Not yet."

She placed her hands on her hips as he merrily answered back whatever it was he was writting. She was crazy wasn't she? "But you want to."

"Yes."

"And does he want to?"

"He's been answering all my texts. I'm guessing yes. It's the scar I tell you, irresistble."

"Along with the accompanying stench of death. When was the last time you ate?"

He made a face. "Mooom, but I don't wanna eat my greens."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

There was silence after that. It wasn't strange, just, well, it _is_ odd to be talking to someone clinically considered to be a corpse and the only thing said corpse is doing is texting himself silly. The black body bag wasn't helping. They were having a silent glaring contest and for a moment, Lucy wanted to ask what was really bothering her, the real thing she was upset about, but she trusted Desmond. She'd ask him later. He'd been able to take care of her, so Shaun would be no problem, right?

She smirked "I'm not paying your bill."

He leered. "_I'll_ stop paying yours."

"Oh, now that's low." She walked away, nose in the air as Desmond laughed and tried to make her stay. She couldn't help but smile in satisfaction when she heard him crash to the floor.

* * *

Sobbing. Soft and low, ondulating between high cries and low moans, interjected by pitiful crying and wild gibberish. Lucy watched as Desmond growled and grumbled in Arabic, fingers busy stitching Sixteen up. Two weeks ago, after an especially bad episode, he'd escaped and roamed about Chicago. The authorities kept calling them animal maulings, but Lucy knew it was Sixteen in a panic attack. Desmond had finally sprung to action when he'd received a text from Shaun telling him he'd seen a white blur outside of his apartment. No doubt Sixteen had gone there in search of Desmond, his scent rather prominent with his visits to the Brit.

"Did you have to be so harsh on him?"

Desmond glared, teeth becoming sharp as he bit the string and began with the other long laceration on Sixteen's back. It had been brutal, but with those horrible change of moods he had, it was the only way to keep her 'Uncle' in check.

"We let him be in the warehouse without any locks and the first thing he does is run away to look for me. Yes, it was necessary."

"You know he's almost glued to you."

"That's besides the point."

There was a high wail as, almost on purpose, the same fingers that were healing him dug to cause pain. Even now, Lucy didn't understand why Sixteen clinged so obsessively to Desmond if the other only hurt him. Then again, Sixteen hurt Desmond worse _without even intedning to_. Which was the worst of two evils, she'd never know.

"I-I-I'm so, sorry, I, I didn't... The moon, she... I'm so sorry, Desmond, I'm so, so sorry..."

They both frowned as Sixteen went on to his thirteenth round of apologies. He was so _broken_. She always wondered what had happened to make him into this sopping mess."It's alright." He murmured, going back to the task as the smaller murmured to himself, bandaged fingers touching his own mouth nervously, movements jittery. "But what you did was wrong. Weren't you supposed to stay and take care of Lucy?"

"L-Lu.. Lucy? I didn't, didn't take care. Lucy, is she, is she angry? She is... SHE IS! YOU ARE! DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME!"

Lucy ran our as quickly as she could. All she could do was get out and wait, because the only one who could calm him was Desmond. It was hours later that she watched as Desmond cleaned his hands, a long nasty gash across his stomach messing the hoodie and threatning to spill his guts out.

"Is he asleep or did you knock him out again?"

"Asleep, for once. He'll start screaming in an hour, mark my words."

Watching Desmond sit on the floor made her frown. He always did that when he was particularly tired, not to mention he was barefoot. Another bad sign. The hoodie went off and she was already sitting besides him with the medical kit always kept close. You never knew with Sixteen.

Sixteen suffered from... everything. Paranoia, schizophrenia, bipolarity, anxiety, psychosis, depression, stress, all mixed into a cocktail and forced into the younger man's bloodstream, just to see what would happen, just how fucked up and broken he could come out. These wounds, the chuck of flesh missing from Desmond's neck, the cut on his forehead that kept his left eye closed, the jarring open wound on his stomach that barely contained his intestines, his old scar open until it met his cheekbone, the cuts, the bruises littered about, all of these and so much more, all signs of his sickness.

Effects may vary.

"He didn't mean to. You know he didn't." That was the worst part.

"He never does." That was the sad part.

"_Shaun and Desmond sitting on a tree!"_

_"K-K-K-K. I. S. S I, I, I. N. G."_

_"_You too? Since when is it fair to pair up against me?"

Lucy hummed and looked down where Sixteen sat, rocking himself softly and clutching to her legs like a small child would. In a few hours, she would have to take him to the warehouse and put him in the big metal freezer so he could go to sleep, just like Desmond was about to do.

"My ear hurts because of you. Becca didn't think it was funny that you were hussling in her room."

"What's, what, what is huss... hussling?"

The blonde smiled at her uncle. Sometimes he could be so naïve.

"We'll tell you when you're older."

"How about we don't tell him at all? You know, keep the moral value nice and on top?"

There was a small noise, a vibration and she stared in disbelief as he took out from besides him a cellphone. He smiled warmly, although that changed when she took it from his hands. Worse off, she pocketed it.

"Hey! That's mine! C'mon, Luce, cut me some slack!"

"No way in hell, go to sleep already. I had to lie out of my ass that it might have been somebody's phone. If you don't want me telling it's post-mortem gases, let me zip you up already so I can get some sleep myself."

"T-T-The bloat stage provides the first clear visual sign that, that microbial proliferation is underway. In this stage, anaerobic metabolism takes place, leading to the accumulation of gases, such as hydro-hydrogen su-sulphide,ca-carbon dioxide, and methane. The accumulation of gases within the, with the, within bodily cavity causes the distention of the abdomen and gives a cadaver its overall bloated appearance. R-R-Right?"

She smiled and passed a hand through the wild mop of hair. Sometimes, these little moments made everything worth it. Sixteen nice and calm, Desmond without a worry, herself not as stressed. This right here was why she was trying to cure them.

"That's right."

"You owe him a cookie. "

She glared at the man smiling, sitting inside a bag for a cadaver. Oh, the irony of it all. "Oh, go to sleep you!"

The body bag was zipped back up, even as he laid down with laughter. She pushed the freezer back in and heard no more noises, only Sixteen murmuring to himself, smiling.

_A/N: Right on time! UPDATED : Added some things, thanks to Alexa for pointing out t he mistake, I was exhausted though when I finished this and had no time to check xD I think I just lost my readers..._


	5. Hate List

_A/N: Midterms, in my modest opinion, are pure hell incarnate, more so because like Shaun here, _I want my A's kthx_. Regardless, I'm aware some of you kind of went "What! Vampires? In my fanfic!" Well, guys, it's more common than you think (I'm so witty). Monster here was born from my dissatisfaction with Twilight, which, being the honest reader I was, I did not guide myself on the movies. No, no, I can tell you Twilight sucks because in a lapse of sanity, I actually read a few pieces and translated a hidden chapter or something (gouged my eyes out afterwards). Real vampire stories tend to be dramatic and exaggerated and I wanted a mixture of that, along with vampires like the ones on Blade, or Dracula, hell, even Daybreakers. But the one that actively gave me hope and made me think vampire stories were not doomed to sparkly virgins and their Mary-sue chicks was Let the Right One In. Now _that's _a vampire story._

_

* * *

_

It was impossible. He was hallucinating. One Shaun Hastings could not believe what he was listening, apart from the moaning and groaning and something else he couldn't register but that his mind immediately thought out what it was (nothing to do with low self-esteem, that's just ridiculous).

"C'mon, Becca, hurry up."

"Not my fault you're so slow! Stop it with the squirming. You think he'll mind when he sees us?"

"It's kind of possible he'll call us traitors and have a cow. But maybe he can join us."

"Shaun isn't one for threesomes, Des, he's greedy."

At this point, Shaun, who was eavesdropping through the door, was slack-jawed and unable to believe he was being back-stabbed. The guy he'd been having hopes with, the insufferable twit was cheating on him (not truly cheating as they weren't, well, you know, an item or anything. Not that that'd they ever be, but regardless!) He plastered himself closer to the door, brown eyes wide behind his skewed glasses as they kept talking. The old ladies across the hall were giving him weird looks, but blast them, this was important!

"C'mon, Desmond, hurry up!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying! Fuck, this is tight."

Bloody hell, they were _fucking_? This was all some clever plan to bang Rebecca? He knew a man like that could not possibly be gay. He had a bike, he did parkour, he had a tattoo, and he had a wonderfully toned body (how he got this last part is strictly personal information).

"Oh my god, shoot it! Fucking shoot it, Desmond, shoot it! The goddamn Smoker choking me, shoot it!"

"I'm on it, I'm on it!"

He knew it, all those days, well, nights, with them having nice conversations and pressing of lips (not really kissing) and that one time in the apartment on the couch when they…wait what? Finally deciding that something about the conversation had turned from steamy sex to bizarre, Shaun opened the door as they both turned to look at him, the game placed on pause. They were playing a stupid game on one of Becca's many console games earned through her own sweat and blood (she made terrible menstrual jokes about that, being the fine lady she was). Shaun stared stupidly as Desmond got up with a smile on his face, completely forgetting the game with Rebecca huffing in annoyance.

"Hey Shaun, sorry I just dropped by, should of told you, but I wanted to surprise you."

Shaun only bleakly nodded his head, face aflame as he felt the light kiss on his cheek and Rebecca's laughter.

"I bet he thought we were fucking!"

Desmond at least had the decency to splutter.

* * *

Shaun had very little patience to Desmond's popping in and out of existence (Rebecca said the man had mastered teleportation but he shot that down by telling her he would not submit to her explanation until scientific evidence was presented. She told him to fuck off.) The problem wasn't his near death experiences or the fact that sometimes he would be left mid-sentence (rude. But then again, he's American, what could you expect). No, see it was the part where Desmond _didn't mean to do it._

That's right, you read that right (and repeating of the word 'right' is also correctly used, thank you). He would pop in when Shaun least expected it with this ridiculous dopey smile and a bright hello, patiently waiting for Shaun's heart-attack to settle down. This told him that the man was so eager to see him he'd literally force himself into existence through sheer force of will just for Shaun's amusement (at least that's what Shaun thought. It was sweet in a would-you-knock-that-shit-out sort of way). Or those moments when Shaun would off-handedly say he left something in someplace and Desmond would no longer be there, only to reappear on his apartment with aforementioned item and apologize for not being faster. Not to mention when Shaun would complain about lack of groceries, lack of funding, lack of anything really, and Desmond would bring him anything he'd need, only because he whined a tiny bit or those gorgeous pieces of art he'd give him because "I thought you'd like it."

So while the actions, while really sweet and endearing, where not making Shaun uncomfortable, it was the emotion so deeply engrained to them that had him nervous and hissy and just plain out biting.

Love is something you're just not used to, at all. And when presented to you in a silver platter, you freak out, or in Shaun's case, call the guy an insane city monkey, or a posh show off, or a rude asshole. He wonders if Desmond is aware, because he always only smiles and lets it easily slide off like the Brit isn't insulting him with barbed wire and acid.

All he does is nod his head, or hug him and tell him he loves him too, or kiss him quiet, and it's those actions that make Shaun think on future tense about their status.

Not to mention he smacks him right in the face and the wanker only laughs. A man that takes that sort of beating is not only insane but committed. Rebecca insists he's a keeper but he's already told her she can get her opinion and stick it where the sun does not settle its UV rays on.

* * *

"This is inadmissible."

"Shaun, c'mon, listen to me-"

"No, no, no! Why did you not tell me this! I mean, I thought we had whatever the hell this is!"

"You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? Excuse me?"

Shaun waved in front of Desmond a black book with a pair of hands holding an apple. "_Twilight!_ You like _Twilight!_ I can't be seen with a man that likes,_" _He made a face, holding the book by the tip of the cover like some vermin with rabies (and fleas. Don't forget those). "This thing, because you cannot call it a book and get away with it, more like a book stand. I will not mingle with anyone who reads this, this _abomination._ It is an insult to literature everywhere, not to mention it's-" He used his free hand to make quotation marks "Author', was possibly on some sort of drug or hallucinogen when she wrote this."

"It's better than the real thing." Desmond answered with a shrug. Shaun's shoulders flopped down, his face etched with disbelief. He was making his Goldfish Impersonation as well.

"The _real thing_, Desmond, really, that's your answer? Oh, I'm sure it is on your little fantasy world where vampires and werewolves exist and I'm sure there are also pedophiliac and bestiality enthusiasts out there that share your opinion."

"Are you calling me old or cradle robber? That hurts me and makes me sad on the face." He was smiling as he said this, the arse.

"I am not calling you a vampire, that's what I am not doing but I will call you a bloody twat. I doubt you to be a robber of any sorts because not only am I older than you, you simply don't have the mental capacity to rob anything, much less myself."

Desmond snickered. "Sure, Shaun, whatever you say."

Shaun threw the book on the parkourist's face as he laughed himself silly. "I'm not going out with you, I am not interacting with you, go away, leave me alone you Twitard."

"But Shaun-"

"No! And get your crummy hands off me! You've touched that filth. I will not allow you to touch me with those hands!"

* * *

Shaun isn't really sure what he likes about Desmond. The man is infuriating, childish, annoying and by the heaven's he's terrible with anything pertaining social etiquette (the last is a lie, but he likes to pile more negative aspects on the fool to outweigh any good there is, if any). The man practically follows him like some lost puppy, slobber and yips included, and yet for some strange reason, he tends to allow the man to come over to his apartment, or whisk him away on some social outing (they're not dates, alright! Knock it off! And don't you laugh, he's not in denial, that's ridiculous, there's nothing to be in denial of!)

Rebecca always makes a comment on what a nice couple they make, but Shaun is not so keen on that idea, mainly because _they're both men_. Which would mean that Shaun is gay, which he'd be if the word would be used in a context pertaining happiness (and even then, the happiness part is debatable). He's not gay, never was and never would be. The kisses and the hugs and the sitting together in the couch in amiable silence are just signs of... (uh, bromance? After all, if Thomas Jefferson and John Adams were capable of it, why not him and Desmond?) Not to mention that, even if in the remote possibility he might consider Miles as a candidate to be his (wince now) boyfriend, he still has many things which simply do not garner in his 'positive attributes' list (no he has not done it.)

Like the parkour thing. Really now, going about buildings and rooftops and cars and whatever else it is they jump over to get from point A to point B is not so impressive. Even if the Brit himself saw it when he expressed curiosity, it does not mean he likes it. Why would he like it when Desmond jumps from one place to another, muscles straining and sometimes some of his stomach revealing because of his movements? or how he looks afterwards, flushed and sweaty and panting with his lips in a small smile, those goddamn lips stretching the scar which he just wants to- (excuse me, that was a rather large run-on sentence and we will be moving to something else wrong with Desmond).

A motorbike? Really? On top of that, a tattoo? If he chose two overly cliché things, a bike and a tattoo were on top of his list. The worst part was that it was some tribal tattoo which his mind readily supplied patterns and glyphs and other trivial information. Although the design did slightly garner his interest because it was a symbol he couldn't pin. It seemed trivial at first glance, but once he'd asked to fully see it (for research purpose of course) and he'd found that it wasn't some silly badly chosen tribal tattoo (he even foolishly thought it might have been engraved on his skin, but that was even more ridiculous and completely improbable, but he has his doubts because the moment he touched it, it did feel separate). He's also a bit confused by a strange letter 'A' engraved in the curve of his back (uh, he was, uh, admiring the-never mind, moving on). The bike was a, what did the bloke say, a Ducati Desmode-something-whatever (figures it'd have his name). He has no idea what it is or the make or anything important about it but he has Rebecca investigate. She comes back with the information that his brand in particular is not only rare, but expensive as fuck. To his horror, it is also one of the five _legally_ fastest bikes, which meant it was a two-wheeled deathtrap.

(_He does not like it at all. He doesn't like it when Desmond takes him out for a ride. Sure as hell doesn't like the way he gets a thrill out of something exciting in a life where 'exciting' is finding out someone placed their book back where it belongs. And above all, he doesn't like how he has to pin himself to Desmond, hold him tight so he won't fall, the air snapping against them, the other laughing, asking "You having fun?")_

His schedule, not to mention his moronic penchant for, for, _Twilight _(shudder now)_. _He only sees him at ungodly hours of the night and he's told the bloody wanker that this stupid vampire obsession is getting out of hand. After all, he's living from eight at night to god knows when. Lucy herself tells him he has all this conflicting night jobs which he might or might not go to (like being a comelier. In other words, the idiot tastes wines for restaurants and they pay him _30,000 to 50,000 bloody dollars_. They even bloody fight over him. He doesn't know if this means the wanker's a lot more cultured than he lets on. Then again, we're talking about _Desmond_ here). His weird ass jobs include the normal bartending to _taxi driver_ and even working as a janitor _at morgues._ He's baffled at this because the first one seemed just about enough, but the blonde tells him that whenever he's not with Shaun, he keeps himself occupied with whatever he wants to do that night. Not only is it odd, it's, well, strange. Why would _anyone_ want to work as a janitor! (No offense to any janitors, but do have in mind you are cleaning up after corpses. You placed yourself in this situation).

_Twilight._ God have mercy on the Queen, why _Twilight!_ He's caught the man reading all the bloody books at different times, but really, could he have not chosen something else! Hell, even Harry bloody Potter would have been better (the ending was disgusting in literary status by the way). The twat insists it's a prettier version of the real thing and in retaliation, Shaun makes scathing jokes about the book or about Desmond's actions being very what's-his-name-Cullen like. But the worst part, he isn't only contained to It (he refuses to keep calling it by name, least the woman be summoned from the bowels of hell itself). He's read and seen almost all vampire movies, books, and comics. Shaun cannot stress the utter disbelief he felt when Lucy told him this, all the while laughing because Desmond was begging her (threatening in French) not to do it (she actually answered something back and he frowned).

As you can see by the overwhelming evidence, one fact is true. Shaun Hastings does not like Desmond Miles.

* * *

"Hey."

Casual wave. Casual snark.

"Hello Desmond, go away."

"I have tickets." Bribe.

"I'm sure you do." Dodge.

"What if I told you it's for the opening ceremony of that museum exhibit you've wanted to go?"

Hook.

"...You listened? Why I'm impressed. You actually have some memory retaining abilities."

Hesitate.

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow night."

Bite your lip. Line.

"I thought you said you didn't like those things."

"But you do."

Reel in, smile. Frown, mull over.

"Fine. I'm not paying a single thing though; you _are_ inviting me after all."

"Sure, can't wait to see you in a tux."

Sinker.

"Very funny, Miles."

* * *

For the past fifteen minutes, Rebecca gives him this look which he can't help but feel is the one sign of impending apocalypse he's been mentally preparing himself to accept. That or she's about to make a really nasty comment. Making it here, with over twenty people in a diner and with Desmond and Lucy close, you can just tell it's going to be hell.

"So Desmond, about that finger."

And quickly it seems. The ignorant fool gives a 'hm?' and looks up from his lone glass of water (he insists he already ate. It still looks weird with all three of them with plates and him having nothing but that lone cup), not to mention he stops from trying to take hold of Shaun's hand, the right hand playing with the straw leaving it very visible and his missing ring finger very obvious. Rebecca's smiling from ear to ear like a monster of sorts, maybe a hyena, comparable to a lioness as well and Lucy stopped half-way through her spoonful of chicken soup (she'd been rather fluey lately. Yes that's a word, jam a sock in it).

"Mind sharing the story?"

Desmond blinks and Shaun is reminded of how stupid he can be. He looks at his hand and shows it to them. It looks odd and strange where the finger no longer is, the scar tissue almost unseen. It seems old and Shaun would be under torture to admit that he actually likes holding that hand better (let's not start on fetish things, please).

"Well, it's not that exciting."

"Bullshit, you lost a _finger_. That alone is exciting, c'mon. Cough up."

A clever kick under the table should shut the tech-geek up but the one to wail out is Lucy who kicks him back (and two-fold. Why is a he friend with women stronger than him?)

"Alright, alright. Back when I was, I don't know, seventeen? Some friends were doing this ritual thing to see who'd become part of a... club. It involved hacking your finger off. That's just about it."

They all stared at him.

"You lopped your bloody finger off to _belong to a club?" _It's official now. Desmond is an idiot.

"They didn't really give you a choice, Shaun."

"You were forced to be part of a club, and then you allowed your finger to be lopped off?"

"Now you're making me sound stupid."

"_I'm_ making you-! You chopped your finger off for a club!"

Have you seen those times in movies when the whole restaurant stops whatever they're doing to stare at the crazy person who just yelled? Mr. Hastings is the current crazy person wilting away and trying his best to hide himself under the table. Maybe get Lucy to choke him to death with her legs. The place goes back to being full of talking people and Desmond rubs his back reassuringly. At least the discussion is over.

"So what type of club was it?"

Damn Rebecca to hell and back.

* * *

Everyone is used to suffering. Their mind is engraved with the idea that, if you suffer, just for some time, you will find true happiness, true love. Your parents tell you stories of hardships, of sleepless nights, and pain. Blood, sweat and tears. They tell you how you'll go out in the world and how you'll repeat the process, but you'll get what you want if you endure, if you just grit your teeth, take the beating and keep your chin up, because eventually you'll find happiness.

Nobody tells you what to do when happiness finds you instead.

All this time, you search desperately, so is it any surprise when happiness finds you, you're not very happy? You're confused and you think, this isn't right. Your parents told you to suffer as much as possible. Is this half-happiness then? Maybe the method is right and you have to suffer a bit more. You turn away from it and search again.

This is how Shaun lost Kat.

He thought it was too easy, too simple, so he merely let go, thinking that if he suffered a bit more, he'd find someone better. For a long time, he finds no one, and just like everyone else, he filled himself up with regret and maybes and cussing at his own idiocy. He's just about ready to give up, stop searching because it's useless, just how everybody eventually does, heartbroken and tear stained because no one will ever love you like how you want. Everyone is used to suffering, and Shaun hides his pain, just like how everyone does, grit your teeth, take the beating and keep your chin up.

People hide it differently. Dig it deep into yourself, smile everyday even if you're crashing inside. Shaun's brand lashes out and snaps at everyone, wear it on your sleeve and use it as a weapon. No one is used to happiness because it leaves no scar. We're all so used to suffering that happiness is a stranger to us.

Maybe this is why Shaun pushes Desmond away.

He's tried to rationalize the many ways they will crash and burn, how much suffering that will cause and the happiness that will come later, because all good things must come to an end. He finds about thirty different ways they'll fall and smash to the ground. Another twenty how they'll become 'just another couple'. At least fifteen where one of them will cheat. Eight where they have to split for some unspecified reason. Three more where one of them dies, even both. With all these rational thoughts, all these 'do not proceeds', then why are they still seeing each other?

Nobody tells you what to do when happiness finds you.

All those things he tells himself he hates and abhors about Desmond's behavior, truth is, he likes it. He likes the parkour, because the scarred man is the only one he personally knows who can walk on a rooftop edge without fear of falling (he'd shit himself first before even _approaching_ the edge). The bike, the tattoo, he fucking loves them because it's common in a different way. He doesn't know how to explain it, but it is. Even his stupid schedule and his stupid Twilight obsession, they make him less of a guy, more of a friend, someone he can tease and joke around with. And the man part? Who is he kidding, he wants to bugger the guy into the mattress. His dreams are more than happy to oblige to those thoughts.

Shaun isn't used to happiness, but maybe this time, he'll oblige. After all, the suffering will make the result all that much better.

* * *

"Hey."

The Brit gives a hum to show he's listening. They're on the couch, neither on the mood to go out. Desmond is a great big blanket on top of him while the historian searches for channels, something that isn't mediocre or mind-numbing. For all it's worth, he's just channel surfing. What people now call zapping (which is ironic because he's always snapping at Rebecca not to do it).

"Can I ask you something?"

"It's 'may' not 'can'. Simple grammar. Yes, you may. I hope it's better than what I'm doing."

They're here in the couch when they could be anywhere. This is the point where he wonders if this is what he wants. Reminds him of corny novels he doesn't read. This is where the fact that he's a total closet sap slaps him in the face, right there, in the cheek, leaving a big red mark.

"Can I be your boyfriend?"

Maybe it's because the scarred man knows how fragile this is that he words his question carefully. Can I, instead of Would you. Or maybe he's just being a dick.

"Well I suppose you could, if, you know, you weren't such an insufferable prat. But then again, if I don't reign you in, you'll probably go off to pester some other person and while other people's lives do not concern me, I won't hear the end of it from Lucy."

And the bloody idiot's just smiling from ear to ear, leaning on his knees and elbows to press lips to lips, and he's smiling too. We're not used to happiness, we hate the person we love. It's not always like in those novels he doesn't read, but this suffices for the moment. He has to kick him though when he gropes his ass. So much for a sweet moment.


	6. Deadlines Equal Aphrodisiacs

_A/N: You guys have no idea how happy all your reviews make me. I literally beam and suppress my squeals of delight when I notice a new review, not to mention your suggestions and words of encouragement kep me going. This spring break allows me to post two chapters this time, so you won't be reading an author's note on the next one, not to mention there will be a nice... surprise in the end of the one your are curently reading. Also, this chapter is part of the idea challenge I made. The lucky winner for this chapter is **Alexabeamer** whose prompt was something that made me smile.__ So, trying not to look like a complete idiot and rather shy on this, here goes._

_((EDIT MAR/30/2011: JESUS CHRIST, THIS TOOK MORE THAN EXPECTED ))_

* * *

According to Wikipedia (because he can't be arsed to search more thoroughly), intimacy generally refers to the feeling of being in a close personal association and belonging together. It is a familiar and very close affective connection with another as a result of a bond that is formed through knowledge and experience of the other. At this point, he has known Desmond for three months and they somehow function, although he himself is not sure how this is possible. After all, their schedules crash, they constantly fight (more like argue, and those are sometimes one-sided. Lazy American), and he sure as hell hasn't even treaded the dark waters of sex (no, he's not afraid, that is ludicrous, he _is not some virgin woman_. Just a virgin man). They've tousled about sometimes, usually instigated by Desmond (the sex-fiend), they now go out to those dreadful parties Rebecca always dragged him to (he can complain to Desmond all he wants with the infuriating prick smiling all the while), and all in all, his life has become far more active both in the night and in daytime as well.

Which is rather odd considering Desmond can't go into the sunlight (he keeps insisting this is part of his stupid vampire obsession but Lucy actually confirmed that the man has some sort of acute photosensitivity. It doesn't explain his goddamn tan by the way), and for some reason people now tell him he seems more approachable (Rebecca says with a shit-eating grin that he's been _humming_ lately. He blatantly denies this.)

It's been a wonderful couple of weeks, blissful even (dear Lord, he's going sappy), filled with nights full of Desmond, better work days and great school evenings when It comes. The fires of Hell Itself descend upon him and all his classmates as the dreaded Midterms smite them all with the wrath of an unforgiving toddler (they can be right bastards). Now, this is the point where he scoffs at everyone panicking and pulling all-nighters trying to cram while abandoning all social life to finish the twenty page essay you were supposed to be working on _three months ago_ because in his case, he's already passing his tests with flying colors and cleaning the details out of his thirty page essay.

At least, that's what happened last semester.

_This_ semester, he's actually part of the student body _panicking_ and ripping himself from all human contact because _oh my fucking god, I've done absolutely nothing may god have mercy on our souls _(insert copious amounts of screaming and cussing). See, this is why Shaun has no social life. Without social impediments, he can concentrate head-on in his work. Miles, however, kept him constantly preoccupied and ridiculously love stuck (yes, stuck) on his cellphone, ignoring all those little warnings he'd left to get ready for his assignments. Even now, immersed fully in a book and ignoring everything except some man named Al-Mualim (why are there so little resources! He just had to pick conspiracies didn't he! Bright idea there, chap! Stunning!), his cellphone is buzzing in his back pocket, and he can almost hear the American whine.

He can bugger off for all he cares; his grades are on the line here dammit!

There's a frustrated snarl when the book only gives vague references about an assassin order and its subsequent downfall when the next master suddenly disappears (what the hell kind of name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?) leaving a whole order and a pregnant woman like headless chickens (this amuses him for a total of 3 milliseconds before he's back to raiding the library). He keeps searching, practically on the brink of (_not_ tears) ripping his hair off when he finds there's an old text that can give him a bit more information. His momentary high spirits are brutally slaughtered when he finds the text is in _bloody Syria._

Somebody please bring a defibrilator.

The worst part is there are _no images whatsoever_. None. Nada. The only thing that comes out is a strange 'A' shaped symbol, but nothing else (and it somehow seems familiar, like he's seen it somewhere) so he gets that and races to the department where, with a wince, he dives deep into the horrid recesses of the internet. He finds a bit more then stops dead on his tracks when he _finally_ (insert chorus of singing angels) finds an image of the bugger (he's bloody fugly by the way).

It infuriates him how laid-back Rebecca is because the goddamn wench didn't even try to finish her economics paper saying that she'd just drop the lowest grade. Like hell he'd do that. Of course, in a manner of weeks, she goes from making fun of him to trying every conceivable thing possible to get him to eat. No time for that! He _has_ to finish this, and by his standards!

Behind the Brit's back and finally at her wit's end, Rebecca slyly takes Shaun's phone and sends several texts. She couldn't move him at all, but she knew there was at least one person capable of making him eat (or sleep. He was running on his third day with nothing but coffee and _her_ Monsters. That was just plain unacceptable)

* * *

_Wat do u mean he hasn been eatin?_

_yeah, im srs. just keeps wrkn on his stpd prjects :P he's all shaun of the lvng ded_

_fml. fine, heading over_

_BRINGT TAKE OUT_

_wat! its ur turn!_

_yea but ur the one comin over :3_

_bitch_

_fag_

_

* * *

_

Alright. He'd found some shady blog advertising something called a _'Codex'_. It'd arrive sometime next month, not the best time as he only had two months to finish everything, but from that to nothing, it was acceptable. Curiously, the woman who'd sold it to him seemed relieved to rid herself of it, mentioning something about the object being wildly searched by some monster. He'd scoffed at this, and was surprised to read he'd be receiving more than he bargained. In his honest opinion, it sounded quite much like some cheap horror movie hook up. He rolled his eyes, printed the receipt and went back to his paper.

Monsters. _As if_.

"Hey."

One of these days he was going to throw his heart out (violently, so Desmond would die out of guilt.)

"M-Miles, bloody hell, knock that off!"

"Sorry. What's this I hear about you not eating?"

He snarled. _"Rebecca."_

_"_Yes, her. She's worried. She also demands you stop hogging the Wi-Fi. She needs to go on a raid this week."

"Oh that's wonderful; I'll go ahead and stop my work so she can get back to her internet life. Has she mentioned she's going to fail one of her subjects because she's too lazy to start on her projects?"

"She mentioned you don't have to turn the _draft_ of one your works until next month."

"Exactly. Do you understand then, how completely lagging I am? I have practically close to nil resources, I need to make several reviews and I also need to-"

It's hard to keep up with an argument when you have a pair of lips on your own. When the bloody git parted and lingered there, with a bag behind his back, he chuckled and murmured.

"I have those dumplings you like and shrimp lo mein."

...curses, the fool knew his weakness! The brown of his eyes slimmed considerably as he glared at the twinkling black.

_"Fine."_

May it be on record that he tried his bloody damndest to resist his stupid face. The table was cleared of its precious contents and the food was placed neatly in front of Shaun (the bastard even had a thermos of _real_ Earl Grey for him. Not that he felt _pampered_ or anything). It always made him curious, watching everyone around Desmond eat and the man never taking a bite, not even when it was offered. He'd seen him drink water, cokes, even energy drinks, but he'd never seen him take a bite. He chewed the thought out (along with his lo mein) and gave him a suspicious glare to which the scarred man only smiled pleasantly. See? Idiot, that was all he was!

"Why have I never watched you eat?"

"Because I-"

"Eat before you get here, yes, yes, but I haven't even seen you take even a piece of bubblegum to your mouth. What, are your tastes too refined for what I eat?"

In a matter of seconds, the smile went from pleasant to rueful, and he chuckled darkly, like he was laughing at some morbid inner joke.

"More like my diet is a little too gross for you."

"Oh come now, what are you, a vegan?"

That glint again of amusement. The Brit watched un-amused as Desmond shifted in his seat and leaned back precariously on the feet of it.

"I'm a humanitarian."

Shaun made a face. "What does that have to do with eating habits?"

"Nothing, Shaun, just a joke. Ask Becca, I'm sure she'll know. Now that I answered your question, you answer mine."

"Which would be?"

"Why are you panicking over projects due in two months _in Spring Break? _We should be going out, have fun by the beach or something, go to the fair, hit the clubs."

Was this moron for real? Shaun ate a considerable amount of dumplings to keep himself quiet for a bit. Of course that didn't work for the reason that Shaun rather liked to discuss things.

"Really, Desmond? _The beach?_ What, are we going at night when it's freezing, because if I remember correctly, your skin isn't very amused with UV rays. As a matter of fact, it blisters in anger when they're acquainted."

"Night's the best time to go skinny dipping."

This close, this close to choke on his food. While Desmond was patting his back trying to remind him how to properly get food from point A to point B and definitely not to point Q, he tried his best not to envision them both very cold, very naked and very alone in the water. Still waiting for that defibrillator, by the by. He waved the other away who was by now chuckling at his beet red face and expression of mortification (one of these days he was going to get back at him. One of these days!) He glared at him, hard, to emphasize his anger but only received the infuriating calm smile. It begged to be punched.

"How about we go out right now?"

"_What?_ Alright, this is the last confirmation I needed. You're bloody insane."

"I'm serious, we could go, right now. There's close to no one there, it's quiet and peaceful. You need a break anyway."

"I do _not_ need a break, I need to finish this."

"Just this once. I'll never move you out of your work again. I'll keep bringing you food back though, I like you alive."

Have you seen those movies where one of the two is more outgoing? Does things you personally would never do? Shaun felt Desmond was like this, in these moments (if a little dense.) A second to think how ridiculous the suggestion is, and then the acceptance that it's not every day you receive such requests. It's not common, and maybe that's why it sounds so exciting. Maybe that's why a few minutes later he's clinging to him while they dodge cars and head to the beach. When they finally arrive at Loyola Park, it's almost three in the morning but he doesn't feel tired at all.

"Well would you look at that, it actually _is_ a nice view."

Desmond chuckled. The bike is stationed on the sand, with the parkourist sitting on it, looking at the lapping waves, the wind lightly ruffling his clothes. Shaun is sitting on it as well, facing the moron and wondering why they're seated like this (if he's honest, he wishes he'd been hugged, but like bloody hell he's going to admit to that.)

"I told you."

"We're not skinny dipping."

"Party pooper."

He's elbowed, thought it's more of a playful push. It amazes him how controlled Desmond is, if you watch him carefully. The way he does actions with a certain sort of calculated force. He's always considered this odd, but at least it means he won't be bruised. He's seen the man tumble with Rebecca, and they don't play nice.

"I shouldn't be here, I should be getting my resources. This is stupid and ridiculous, not to mention the epitome of sappy. A _beach_ of all things, I'm such a fool for romanticism aren't I? I swear if you go to my apartment with _roses_ come next Valentine I will-"

The man has to quit shushing him with kisses (not that they're not appreciated, just, well, never mind.) If Rebecca ever gets wind about them kissing on a beach, she'll have a field day for months to come. They part with him breathless and Desmond smiling. Makes the Brit wonder when he's not smiling.

"You've got to stop that."

He's peppering all these little kisses all over his jaw, smirking, and Shaun is dead sure Desmond feels very smug right about now. "Stop what?"

"Shutting me up with a kiss, you keep doing that when I'm _what do you think you're doing?"_

Was it always this hot? Really, they're on the beach, there's wind and the bloody git is leaning over him sucking on his Adam's apple. He's holding himself in place by the back of the bike and his heart is trying its absolute best to get out of its ribbed confinement (or maybe tap-dancing). He doesn't answer, but he looks up, and dear God he's not smiling either. Shaun wonders for a brief moment if this is how a rabbit feels when an eagle is staring down at it. They're kissing again, but it's a bit more desperate. There's something underneath and he pretty much knows it's sexual frustration (it's worse because it comes from both parties.)

They stop again, breathless and more than a little hot and bothered. Is it ironic that he feels himself smirking now? Desmond's looking at him, searching, maybe for a negative, a no-go. Carefully, his arms wrap around the redhead and he leans closer still.

"We should go back. It's rather public here."

"Hurry it up then."

They're speeding back in a blink of an eye. So much for a break what with Shaun's heart rate much faster now. He feels the nibbling sensation of fear along with excitement, doesn't know what to think, except that he's _gonna get laid._

Becca won't be able to use the virgin jokes anymore.

* * *

Have you ever had sex? Oh, yes, I've just asked that. See, movies and books and even people greatly over exaggerate it or describe it minimally, so by the end of it, you have no idea what to expect. When your first time comes, you're not as excited as you thought you'd be. After all, everyone seems to forget that whether straight or gay, _sex hurts_. Not to mention you're taught since you're a teenager that it's all rainbows and flower meadows only to learn firsthand that it's just you and someone else using all five senses (and it's going to get messy, romantic or not. _And you'll have to clean it up.)_ Also forgotten is the fact that sex _isn't perfect_, it _can_ be fucked up, and your nerves can make something go from hot and arousing to embarrassing and hilarious in five seconds flat.

Shaun's first time (with anyone. One word and he commits murder) was... _odd. _Not odd in _holy fuck we had some real, deep, kinky shit going on, _more like _I've no idea what the fuck just happened but it was awesome._

For starters, foreplay was... just, wow. He had no idea he was that sensitive (no, not woman sensitive, just, well. Did you know the largest sex organ we have is actually our skin? Desmond knew that. Oh, God did he know that.) They had to check if Becca was in first and then they were racing to his room like a couple of teenagers (and giggling like them. He excludes himself from this, of course.) It's nothing but tongues and hands, with the bloody git feeling under Shaun's shirt with the tip of his fingers, pressing only in certain parts, and he's thinking about the paper he still has due, the laundry that hasn't been washed, and _dear God I'm going to get fucked._

Now, here's the part where the little speech above kicks in. Shaun is so focused in what Desmond is doing that he doesn't notice his book bag on the floor, or that his feet get wrapped in it, or that he's three seconds from tripping. So when they both crash down, Desmond atop him and Shaun's glasses going askew, they just stare at each other for a couple of minutes. The laughter after this soothes their nerves (and he's not kidding. He feels a little less stressed and terrified as shit. He's still terrified, but not as much.) and the elephant trying to make residence in the room goes away.

Desmond is chuckling as he kisses him, and its this tiny moment that calms their hormones a bit. "That was embarrassing."

"Entirely your fault by the way. Attacking me like some crazed teenager."

The glasses are placed in their rightful place, with almost revered care. Shaun doesn't know if he should take them off or keep them on. What the hell do you do when you have glasses and you're about to have sex? Wear contact lenses?

"We don't have to do this."

It's so sudden it takes several minutes for it to register in his brain (after all, his blood is in another place.)

"_What?_ Oh, bloody hell, no! You've been a nice lad not hurrying it up and all, but there's a limit and I'm very much human, so I have very human needs! We are going to shag, we are going to enjoy ourselves, and we are doing it now before I rationalize it so I can brag about it tomorrow!"

He'll change a few things here and there, but hey, who cares.

"You look cute when you're flustered."

"_Oh shut up and kiss me already."_

There's no better way to say that. Hell, they even stay there for a little bit (and the little thought comes in; he hasn't swept the bloody floor). He's about to snarl that he wants to be on the bed when the act itself takes place, not on the goddamn floor, when he's being taken by the hips and raised up on said furniture with ease. Does he eat that little or is Desmond that toned? They're on that part where they start taking articles of clothing off when he remembers.

"Wait, wait, wait!"

_What?_ Weren't you the one saying something about fucking and fucking _now?"_

He gives him a slap of sorts because adults or not, that is some crude language right there (not that it's arousing. No, not at all.)

"Condom. And bloody lube. You have it or we don't do jack."

"Of course I have some, what am I? An idiot?"

When the items are take from the hoodie he was just wearing, he can't help but stare incredulously. _How did he not notice that!_

_"What the-_? Did you always carry that?"

"You never know."

"Bollocks, you always knew, you wanker."

See? Good example of the afore mentioned paragraph. One minute hot and sexy, next it looks like a pre-acted sitcom. At least he was completely entertained (and aroused. That's a big bonus right there.) After the little Condom/Lube Catastrophe is averted and the jeans are the next to go, his jittery fears are right back and in front row seats when he sees, _really_ sees Desmond. That question about him being toned? Yeah, he's a fucking sculpted god. Now, if he could only hide his flat stomach, that'd be wonderful and they'd be even (a historian's diet consists of coffee and anything edible near you.) And of course, the bloke decides to rub it in by kissing him downwards, from his neck to his navel. Because really, this is the best time to do so.

Fun fact: When you're having sex, you're brain doesn't shut down. On the contrary, it goes into overdrive. He's got all these ridiculous nonsensical ideas going on while Desmond is unbuttoning his pants. He's thinking about his paper, the Codex he's going to get, the way Desmond tends to rub his nose when he's nervous and when the mouth wraps around him, all slick heat, he's thinking about that time they were at the apartment's rooftop. They were talking nonsense, just like what's passing through his head in that instant. He hisses, hips jerking up, and he thinks about that one time Desmond almost choked on a cup of water, laughing so hard with Becca hitting him on the back. With that tongue rolling around him, that bloody throat constricting him, he's thinking about Ibn'La-Ahad but he doesn't know why.

That wonderful mouth comes to a halt too soon (along with the stupid thought vomit. There's seriously no other way to name it) but any complaining stops when he sees the condom being opened and Desmond's jeans being removed. His heart is hammering in his chest so fast because _that can't possible fit_. Is it audible?

Hello, heart, yes, I know you're there. If you'd kindly shut up, it'd be appreciated.

Now see, this is the exact part where it goes odd. He's panicking, wondering just how much it'll burn (or hurt. What if it's searing pain? He'll bail if it entitles that), when instead of wearing the condom himself, Desmond puts it on Shaun. While he stupidly watches Desmond readying them both (he's sure he's doing his ever famous Goldfish Impersonation), he's thinking that he actually didn't expect this. By the standing they have, he thought the one doing the... uh, _penetrating_ would be Desmond. Not that he's complaining. This means he can actually goad that_ he_ shagged the American. Instead of just watching and keeping his mouth shut, his mouth decides to finally make some other noise apart from panting and moaning.

"W-What are you bloody doing?"

Years of amassing an impressive vocabulary and this is what he spews? His family would be so _proud._ The wanker, as always, doesn't answer, just smiles and straddles him. He's then being guided into tight warm heat and _jesus christ bloody hell._ A hand can never compare to this. They're dead still, Desmond panting, looking a bit uncomfortable, but before Shaun can ask anything he's moving. It's too bloody slow, but it's so bloody good and his hands find purchase in those hips, vile tempting bones just protruding slightly from the skin, the muscles flexing, moving as he's being ridden.

Are you reading this right?

Because obviously, this has to be the amalgamation of every single bloody wet dream he's had for the past months. It has to be some sort of dream, or a hallucination, because he's the one doing the fucking; he's the one feeling the heat around him, tight and wonderful; he's the one digging his fingers into tanned skin; he's the one making Desmond _moan_. You know that talk about paces and how they suddenly turn frenzied? That one is true. But see, that's because you're not close to the goal. When you're taking a test, the last five minutes are no longer under your control. You just want to finish, you're desperate so you do whatever as quickly as you can. Sex is kinda like that. They both start slow, restrained, but controlled and it's fine. He's feeling this strange sort of tingling when the scarred man (oh, his mouth isn't the only thing scarred. We _are _discussing his torso, you perverts) starts speeding up, holding to Shaun's thighs to help himself. He doesn't know exactly when it starts, but when it does, _it's glorious._

This is the time your brain truly goes blank.

The talk about stars is bull, but the little white spots you see behind your eyes because of the sheer intensity is true. That's exactly why they call them stars. So in a way, it's true, but it's bullshit. The weight on top of him for the first ten seconds is comforting, and then it gets annoying after the last bits of his orgasm fade away (also called afterglow. That one's not bullshit either. Kinda like an after-orgasm, just not as intense, kiddies). They untangle from each other, with a hiss and a wince (poetry, not pretty, but ah well) and they 're staring at the cracks in the apartment's ceiling.

"We're sticky."

Desmond looks at him, with his dorky smile and his tired eyes. He could be a model. Maybe he is, within one of his bloody weird jobs.

"We just fucked and the first thing you say is that? Son, I am disappoint."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Becca can tell you."

There's a groan after this little smart comment. What is with this man and Rebecca? (Not dating. Last time Lucy joked about them dating they began gagging. Something about bromance only. He still didn't get it.) He wants to clean up. He really does. But now that they're on the bed, and he's warm, and sleepy, and maybe tired (sex is indeed a strenuous activity), he doesn't want to. Not now.

"...When we wake up, I expect us to be clean."

There's a kiss to his shoulder and Desmond's arms wrap around him (along with his legs. You don't want to know about the tickling sensation. Just, _no_.) The glasses are finally taken off and placed in the little table besides the bed.

"Yes, Master."

"Really funny."

* * *

Desmond's eyes snapped open. Had Shaun been awake, he'd been startled to see them shine an eerie gold. He sat up and smelled the air, the scent weakly but perceivably there. He snarled. What was _he _doing here_? _As quickly and quietly as he could, he got out of bed and dressed. Before he exited the room, he stopped and stared at the redhead, door half-way closed.

If he found out...

He glared. No, not yet. Maybe later. But if he knew _now..._

The door was gently shut, along with the front one as he stepped out into the cold, and straight into the person originating the scent. He was walking in slow circles about the street, mumbling and muttering to himself.

"Sixteen!"


	7. My Name Carries 7 Letters

_Run away, be quick, don't look back_

_The Pisaca, it follows, will surely attack_

_Feeds on death, life and sanity_

_Leaves no place for respect, neither for vanity_

* * *

-so sure one of these days Desmond will finally get to his senses and kill me. I deserve to die. We deserve to die. The truth lies deep within us, inside our hearts, the veins carry it and we must eat the truth from other people to keep our souls open.

_How much do you know about the moon?_

He screams at me. It's for my own good. We float through time like wraiths searching for redemption but we're allowed none. He hits me. It's for my own good. I didn't mean to hurt them. They screamed even louder than him and it hurt my ears so and I just had to make them stop, these monsters, had to make them stop, so I did. The truth slips from their gaping necks, their flowing stomachs and I feel so thirsty. No matter how much water I drink, how I beg him to stop, it stays without us and demands truth.

_The average distance from Earth to the Moon is 384,403 kilometers (238,857 miles). The actual_  
_... . -.- distance varies over the course of the orbit of the moon_

It feels constricting, inside my own body, and I cry and I beg and I pray and he's besides me, and he murmurs in I have no idea, but the tone. Oh, the tone, so sweet, so gentle, and I cling and I cry harder and I beg for forgiveness, because I did it again, ripped the truth from another monster, cool hands on burning forehead soft lips on sweaty skin. I'm burning for my sins. Am I forgiven? Tell me that you love me, Lucy.

_The Moon is the Earth's satellite, revolving around it about once every 29.5 days.  
_... . -.- -..- / ... . -.- / -.- - ..-

Lucy? She's so little. She's only twenty-something. So fragile, have to keep her safe or Ezio gets angry, just like an eagle falling down on a rabbit, claws rip rip rip, flesh and fur leave, eat the meat, drink the truth. It's for my own good. My own good. I love you, deeply, truly do. I hate you, with every atom in my body. My head hurts, you say it's fine. One more time, just one more _run as fast as you can!_ I hide my truth, I drink it, I see deep inside. Lucy, oh Lucy. I hate you so much, with my heart, with my soul. I'll always keep you safe, I promise, I'm so sorry, I hate you, say it to me, repeat it, please, tell me _you fucking son of a bitch you did this to_ that you hate me too.

_The Moon has a mass of 7.3477 × 1022 kg, a volume of 2.1958 × 1010 km3, and an equatorial circumference of 10,921 km._

I hurt___.-. .-.. . .- ... . / .-.. .. ... - . -. / - - / - ._I hurt so much. Desmond? Desmond please, I hate you please. Tell Altair I love him, that I wish he'd die, I wish he'd burn in hell, like I burn inside my shell, my fires of damnation and self-justification Ezio, him, love him too, fuck him, fuck them. Desmond? Lucy? Do you remember? You promised you'd let me out. Gold lies in cotton mouths. I hurt so much. It's for my own good. I'm on a bed _a cot, explosions outside, the Germans are winning_ burning and she's here. Lucy, oh Lucy. My savior, little lamb, she cares for me, always, just like he used to, just like he does. He's besides me, cold hands, freezing, death's hands. Please make the fire stop, Desmond. _Please don't hurt me! Oh God please, put the gun down! No, no, no!_

_Faith is an organic illusion, a harmonic coincidence._

They overlap. The truths, the times, the legacies. Years and centuries, people and places, muddled together, it happens to him sometimes, he forgets too, just like I do, sometimes, it scares me. He speaks different, acts different, _you're not you, please think about it, just please don't shoot me, the arrow sails, the blood, the truth the_ and sometimes I wonder, who am I, where am I, what is this, why is this happening to me, someone please, tell me. It hurts. It's for my own good.

_- ... / - ... .- -. -.- / -. - -.. -..- / -.- - ..- / -.-. .- -. / .-. . .- -.. / - ... .. ... -..- / -.- - ..- / ... .- ...- . / - - / .-.. .. ... - . -. / -... . ..-. - .-. . / .. - .-. ... / - - - / .-.. .- - ._

The air feels so good. I needed to go out. Desmond said no, Lucy said no, but I need it, so much. The moon, _the moon can fuck the tide of the earth, it's going away as we speak _is right there, in the sky, the same, always the same. She watches _as I raise the knife over her, please don't do this_ over us, always the same, never changing. The cold air on my clothes, the hard granite beneath my feet, the snow, such beatuiful snow falling slowly and-Wait, did you smell that? I stop, smell, hear, touch, sense. Here, he was here, Desmond's scent, follow it, follow the scent, sand and blood and wine and sweat. Here this roof, sitting here, looking where? Rush out, follow it, to here, this place, his smell, strong and around this building, mixed with another, tea and old books and ink and _truth, warm, hunger, eat, rip, tear find it_, go in ignore the other scents, follow up, follow-the door. Can't pass through it. Please let me in.

_The Moon has an atmosphere so tenuous as to be nearly vacuum, with a total mass of less than 10 metric tons._

"Sixteen!"

Stop. I turn and look and he's there, with his smell of sands long gone, wine sorely missed, blood, sweat and tears.

"What are you doing here?"

"I-I..." Don't know. had to follow, had to, needed to, the other smell, so sweet, so alluring, "W-W-Was thir-th-thirsty."

"Not here. C'mon, let's go somewhere else."  
... .- ...- . / -.- - ..-

"B-B-But this... here there's-I m-mean, the scent, I, I, foll-followed, _it smells so good_."

Glaring now, from black to gold, stern. I hiss, feel panic bubling, tears stinging, frustration, sadness _paranoia, Abstergo has been looking for us run!_

_"Sixteen,_" Voice, tone stern, steely, I snarl._ Altair._ "Let's go somewhere else. You can't eat from here."  
-... . . -. / .-. . .- -.. .. -. -. / -.-. .-.. - ... . .-.. -.- ..-..

* * *

_You, the one reading this*_

_I live my life in swinged emotion_

_Terrified by the sun and the motions_

_Of Pale claws and teeth asunder_

_Oh, mercy, oh shame, PLEASE NO I SURRENDER!_

0 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1 0 1 1 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 1 0 0 0 1 1 0 1 1 1 1

_No mercy given to the victim_

_Which cried in vain at what was inflicted_

_Poor thing, such a fuck up, he should've listened_

_Should've stayed away away, but now imprisoned_

_Are you reading this right?*_

_

* * *

_Whine and whimper, nervous. It's so cold, I'm so thirsty, I'm so hungry, please, please. I scream, run away, get away he's behind me I can sense him dear God please have mercy don't let him catch me please go, faster, run run RUN!

"SIXTEEN!"

Just run, just keep going, just go, don't turn, run away _the French are close, keep going, have to give this, the package, have to warn them_ keep screaming, white fear running through my veins, then impact, scream louder, thrash, get away, kick, snarl, tumble, bite, scratch_gasp-!_

Cold hands, frozen, death's hands around my neck. No more screams, just choked gurgles, desperate inhalations, press, feel the claws digging into flesh. Tears, stinging, so many. Sobs. Sobbing. I'm so sorry. It's for my own good. Then, freedom.

I curl in on myself, small shelter, turn away from him, tremblin, crying, wailing. _Please don't hurt me_. Knuckles, soft, cool, touch my face, lips, a voice, a whispered hush, someone over me, comforting.

"It's ok."

_Desmond._ I cling to him, cry harder, louder, shaking. I'm so hungry. He holds me, rocks me, hushes me, tell me, over and over.

"It's ok."

My savior, the love of my life, my sworn enemy.

"C'mon, let's get you home. I'll get you somethin to eat."

I'm so tired... So sleepy...

_He killed me long ago._

_

* * *

Open your eyes. There's someone humming, hand petting my head. Comfort. __Home_. I bury my face in the cloth, the slow rising and falling, the heartbeat, slow and faint, almost unnoticeable. Listen to the tune. Peace and tranquility. This is for my own good.

"Hey."

Blink, come back. Look up into worried black, frown and sadness. Feel a cool rag across your forehead and sigh as your eyes close again, Lucy's touch as soothing as always.

"How're you feeling, Sixteen?"

Give a little whimper, hold what little warmth is close. Feel the hand, the rag, the blade, cool and soothing through your forehead, taking away the sweat, the tears.

"He's running a fever again. Did he get stressed when you brought him over?"

"It was kinda hard for him _not_ to get stressed, but he was trying to get to the apartment."

Voices, they swim about. It's so nice. This is for my own good. This is alright.

"What, Becca and Shaun's apartment? Did he follow you?"

"I found him there afterwards, but this is the second time he's tried to get there."

Sleep. I haven't slept in three months. Body won't allow it. But today, just today, eyes close and sleep flows in.

* * *

_Allukah, Picasa, lie to me so_

_.- ... .- - / ... . / -.. .. -.. / - - / - . / .- .- ... / ... - .-. .-. .. -... .-.. . .-.-.- / .. - / .. ... / ... - / ... .- -.. /_

_Tell me I'm pretty, call me a whore_

* * *

Nightmares. Nightmares. Screams, blood, blades, guns, horses, guts, carnage, confusion, pain, pain, all around all engulfing everywhere nowehre where am i please someone it hurts the fever the change the body the truth twist rip suck blood blood blood throw it up disgusting delicious keeps you awake alive half-way in betwen worse with me i amthe, the the-!

...

_Oh, oh my God. I-I'm clear again. You! The one reading this! You have to listen to me! These little lucid moments I have, they vanish quickly, so I'll make it quick. I'll leave clues for you, you have to hurry or the cycle will repeat itself! The Codex is key, that's why he's searching for it. The Truth is hidden inside it, but we haven't found it. We need it! It will help with Lucy's research! You have to tell the British man that he, that he..._

He...

He hurts so much. Screaming, yelling, agonizing. Hands on him, soothing words, the cool hands, patting him like a newborn child. Shushing, rocking him back and forth, murmuring assurances to him. Desmond is his savior and his demon. Cares for him. Is it pity? Is it love? He doesn't really care, just clings to it, because this is the only contact he gets, the only affection. And sometimes, I'm so sure one of these days Desmond will finally get to his senses-

* * *

_What is Allukah?_

_What is fear?_

_What is Picasa?_

_What is pain?_


	8. Comparison Test

_Hello, hello, welcome back. I think right now is a good time to finally explain why I thought vampires and AC fit together. Well, see, I find it odd that Altair, Ezio and Desmond look exactly the same. The only difference they have is their cultural backdrop, but it's all being compressed into Desmond through the bleeding effect, making it seem to him like he's already lived two lives (plus his own). You might be wondering where the plot might be heading to. Keep in mind I'm sticking to the game plot and their actual real life personalities, but as for the actual ending, I'd like to invite you to my profile for a poll. After all, I aim to please. This one is dedicated to __**NeverLookBackSamurai **as well as** TheAllPowerfulOz.**__To everyone reading and leaving reviews. Thank you. You don't know how precious your are to me._

_((F-Finals... FINALS *dies*))_

* * *

Leila was gasping for breath. She looked behind her, watching the man (her assailant, if you will) laugh and taunt her. Just a couple more blocks! A couple more and she'd be in her apartment!

"Where ya goin' pretty! Jus' wanna have some fun!"

She refused to let the tears in her face be seen, much less allow herself to be caught by this moron searching for some 'fun'. Fun she was not going to give, never. She'd rather die. She should've listened to Lucy and take the ride she was so insistent on. Something about predators out in the night. Pretty ironic, huh?

"Oi! It ain' funny no more, lady! Gotcha!"

She screamed. As high as she could. She kicked and punched, the man laughing as he grabbed her arms and forced her against the wall. He sniffed her, licked her neck and she screeched even louder. He punched her cheek, yelled for her to shut up. She screamed louder, and for a few seconds it felt like her vocal chords were going to snap. Then, just like that, there was a glint of silver, followed by a sudden burning pain in her stomach.

She gurgled, fell to the floor in a heap while he groaned.

"Great, now I have to fuck a corpse."

She felt those hands rip apart her shirt, open her jeans. Those disgusting eyes savored her and she could feel herself ebb away, into either unconsciousness or death. Judging by the size of the wound and the amount of blood she was losing, death seemed most probable. Listen to her, thinking about her death like a coroner rather than having her mind on being raped and killed. She could already read her report. How stupid.

There was a movement at the corner or her eye and suddenly, the man was off her. She heard a scream, a pained, terrified one. Her head turned towards where he had left and her eyes widened. They were two of them. They _seemed_ human, except, they weren't. In her state, she couldn't explain it, but she just _knew it_, as if some instinctual part of her responded to those... things.

One of them was hunching on the floor, the white hoodie he was wearing covering his face, and curiously, his feet were barefooted. He serenely watched as the other mauled her attacker. And she meant mauling in the unrealistic movie sort of way. Like that one time when she watched a video of a large lion eating an actual human being, the body flapping like some ragdoll, the insides pink and vulnerable. The one doing the mauling was thin and scraggy, but his strength. Oh god. She'd been scared before, but what she was seeing now?

She was terrified.

There were bits and pieces flying everywhere, some of the blood even matted her face. When the body, still breathing and twitching finally fell on the floor, she couldn't look away when the other started _eating her attacker's face off. Or when he started on his intestines, his flesh._

A small whimper from her made the serene one turn and she froze. His lone eye staring at her. It judged her, labeled her as weak, useless. Nothing but fodder. He rose from his place and she tried to scramble away, managing it even with her blood loss, her fear far too primal, too strong. He stopped and hunched over her, those disgusting gold eyes burning into her very self. Not her soul, no, but _into_ her, as a human being.

"You smell like Lucy."

Lucy? She blinked, both trying to clear her vision and fend off the grip of dark unconsciousness that tried to hold her. These things know Lucy?

"But you're not my problem."

Leila Marino watched as the hooded man walked away, passing by his partner who kept devouring her ex-assailant without a care in the world. In her last minutes of life, she found she pitied these men. Somehow, the hooded one's eyes, apart from downright terrifying, had seemed full of self-loathing. She couldn't explain it, but she just knew that the poor man carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Look at her, thinking about sadness of other people when she was dying. How stupid.

* * *

Waking up alone is rather a downer after bloody fantastic sex, but well; the bloke _had_ to leave before sunrise, didn't he? Shaun stared wistfully at the empty space besides him and rolled his eyes. The idiot could've at least woken him up to say good-bye. So much for not being corny. Getting up was rather with cleaning up the... _mess._ There was a point where he glared at his reflection and at the bright purple mark on the connection between neck and shoulder, because honestly, these things were vulgar (although it made him feel rather smug.) But, he thought, chest puffing out in pride, _he'd_ been the one to do the fucking, which, by default, made _him _the guy in the relationship (that's how it worked, right?)

Really, his day was already great. Not to mention that before he left, there was already a text begging and apologizing to Shaun that he'd make it up to him, cross his heart, hope to die. The Brit rolled his eyes but fondly answered back, ignoring Rebecca's pleas to tell her what had happened the night before. Like bloody hell he was going to say anything for now. Let her suffer in silence for a bit. Then he'd slap her with the whole thing (innuendo, oh how witty thy are) and enjoy her dismayed face as her lone opportunity to poke fun at his virginity vanished.

As a matter of fact, his whole week afterwards was fantastic.

You know that thing about sex releasing stress? Bloody fantastic piece of advice, that is (and he was actually looking forward to a repeat. And another. And another. And ano-.) His tests and papers practically flew through nimble fingers and his mood couldn't have been better (Rebecca was terrified of him a week after and demanded he release his malefic hold of the real Shaun.) Even the universe itself seemed to be on his side. The Codex arrived far earlier than expected, his final thesis was moved back, his job gave him a raise (he didn't even care it was minimal) and to top it off with a cherry, there was a high chance probability that he'd become the top scored student in his _entire class generation_ (thank you, thank you.)

The only thing dampening his excellent week was, of all things, Desmond. It was like the earth itself had opened up, swallowed him whole and left absolutely nothing of him. No messages, no voicemails, no visits, not even a goddamn email. He gave a puff, his mood beginning to darken as he placed back a book with a little too much force.

"He's not doing it on purpose, if that's what you think."

Shaun glared at Lucy who had this look of amusement in her face that he wanted to slap off. But a gentleman never hits a woman (except for Rebecca, though she couldn't really pass as a woman.)

"Oh, I'm sure he isn't responding to anything I've sent him because he's sunbathing somewhere, or saving other poor hapless souls or eating them, maybe eating a baby or two, because he's a soulless monster who _won't bloody answer my calls_!"

"You sound so much like the girl."

"I am not a girl!"

Lucy smirked. "I bet you even bottom."

His nose went up and he now felt satisfied to be the one smirking.

"I'm sorry to inform you that I do not bottom. As a matter of fact I-"

"Was Desmond on top of you?"

"What? Yes, but I was the one-"

"_He _was on top of you."

"Well, yes, but-"

"You're a total bottom."

"What! Why?"

Now she had this look that said 'Oh, you poor, ignorant soul.' See, all these smug females were the reason he went gay (Desmond's arse has nothing to do with it.)

"You _do_ know that Desmond doesn't care who tops , right?"

He blinked, a book half-way to the shelf.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head, not to mention she was doing her best to stop the widening smile on her face.

"Desmond doesn't really _care _about position. As in, you, him, turns, permanent role, doesn't matter. As long as it's sex, it's fine with him. "

Shaun's incredulous stare had her giggling behind her hands. He didn't care? Then, wait, how, what..? Please standby, we are experiencing technical difficulties. Our technicians are trying to reconnect Shaun's brain due to Lucy's mindfuck technique. As you have seen, it has left him slightly incapacitated and unable to cope with the idea that he may have indeed shagged Desmond, but he's still not the guy in the relationship. We will return after these few messages!

* * *

Desmond stared at the people down below, tiny little spots from his view, high in the renamed Willis Tower. He was some-what tired, but then again, being tired with his condition came and went. His cell phone chimed for the umpteenth time, but it was the tone he'd chosen for Shaun (somewhat of a joke between them. He insisted Shaun was a male GLaDOS and he'd selected the "Want You Gone" song as the Brit's personal ring tone. Shaun was not pleased by this.) He stared at the little device as it kept ringing. His... business was done. He still had to go to Syria in a few weeks, but, he guessed he could make some time for his lover.

There was a fond smile on his features. _Lover._ Now that was a term he hadn't used in a _long_ time. He flipped it open and grimaced a bit, waiting for the yelling to come.

"Hey." Small, tentative, normal approach. It had to be a good move, right?

"_YOU BLOODY BASTARD_!"

This is why he liked Shaun. Sometimes he knew how he'd react, and then he'd go and exaggerate it, or do something exactly opposite.

"_Three bloody weeks! Three! You wouldn't answer the bloody mobile, wouldn't even bloody text me back! You better have some life or death excuse or I will personally castrate you, you wanker!"_

"I've missed you too, Shaun."

"_Oh don't you bloody start on your gentleman act! Where the bloody hell have you been?"_

He leaned back, cradling the phone on his shoulders as he readjusted his socks. He liked being so precariously on the edge. An old joy he'd never been able to get rid of. The other tennis tapped against the glass panel.

"Here, there. Nowhere even."

_"You know Desmond, if not for your total lack of a brain, I'd say your witty comments are charming, funny even."_

"But it's true!"

Nowhere was a place he didn't like to go, but from time to time, his various lives would bleed together, mingle, and he couldn't have Shaun watch that. Lucy had locked herself up for a full month after one of his attacks. Sixteen's was common occurrence, but it seemed watching her dad raving mad, talking in too many languages at once, speaking to people long dead stressed her, even now.

"_I'm sure it is. Are you going to come over? Or do I have to get in line to be graced with your presence?"_

_"_No, you don't have to be in line. I don't think anyone could manage being in line with you."

"_Excuse me! Who do you think you-!"_

The phone was snapped shut. A deep breath and he looked again at the little people. Surprising, how at this moment if they all dropped dead he wouldn't care but any harm to Lucy or Shaun would have him in another murderous rampage (his last one had started in Firenze, somewhere in 1476.) Then again, in this day and age, that wasn't really simple. Like when they went out to 'eat'. Ugh, had to rip the goddamn body to shreds so the bites won't look that obvious.

He gets up, places the phone into his backpack, and jumps off the edge into the world down below.

* * *

Shaun is angry. No, scratch that. Shaun is pissed. No, not that either, too tame. Let's see...

Shaun is ten seconds away from castrating the bloody wanker holding on to him like some goddamn leech and maybe cut him into little pieces and feed them to some hobo.

Yes, that's a bit more appropriate! Shaun waddled his way back to his room, looking very much like a penguin of sorts. It was hard to walk when you had your boyfriend hugging you and waddling after you, face plastered to your back and butt sticking out (it was so fucking _stupid_ but it was so ridiculously _endearing._) The moment he'd opened the door, the idiot had latched on to him, nuzzling his neck and saying a curt "I missed you." Anything the Brit had yelled was completely ignored as he kept nuzzling him, giving him quick pecks and kissed and _not letting go._

Eventually, he stopped trying to even make him listen and had gone about ignoring him and going about his business. The plan, however, backfired magnificently, as all his plans involving the parkourist do. Now he walked about cleaning and cooking dinner with a Desmond on. He couldn't sit, because the American would arrange himself somehow and manage to stay attached to him (uncomfortably so, but not a complaint was piped). He couldn't walk because the waddle was undignified, so finally, he settled to flopping unceremoniously on the bed. They both fall on it and silence reigns for a few minutes while Desmond wiggles his way up, wrapping his arms around the other's neck and nuzzling him, quiet and content.

"...I'm still angry at you." Shaun murmurs after a long while, when his body feels light and his eyelids feel heavy.

"M'sorry." It's mumbled back, muffled because his face is still buried in Shaun's neck.

"Are you going to tell me where you were?"

"Nowhere."

"I'm being serious."

"Me too."

Glasses looked down to meet brown pupils. There was no twinkle of joy in them, no amusement. For a minute, he even thought there was absolutely nothing in them. But then he blinked and it was replaced with a weary sort of happiness. He reaches up, the only sound being the rustle of clothes and linen and presses a soft kiss to the Brit's lips.

"It was lonely though. That's why I came back, and because I love you, but that's secondary."

Shaun snorted, rolled his eyes as the other chuckled. They stayed like that, although he eventually gave in and wrapped his own arms around Desmond's waist.

"...you are so blatantly _tacky_."

"Only for you."

* * *

Close your eyes, just for a little bit. We're going to make a little experiment. This man besides you, in your bed, we'll compare his actions to you with the actions he took with another. No, he's not cheating on you, and the thought will never cross his mind so rest assured. The thing is, while you will be aware of the actions that are befalling your person, you will never be aware of the other actions to the other person, not until your lover finally tells you d G h h d C B o Z S B l Y X R z I H B l b 3 B s Z S B 0 b y B s a X Z l Base64

Let's begin.

The fingers that move and graze your skin, these same fingers that make you shudder when they _press_ into your hips, the hands that bring you closer, to the other, they rip the skin, make him shudder in agony when they _dig_ deep under the flesh and bring him closer.

You moan when his mouth licks its way from your collarbones to your neck. The mouth moves up and teeth gently nibble your lips, capture them and tease you to respond and you do, without a second thought. He screams when that same mouth tears from his collarbone to his neck. The mouth moves up and jaws bite down on the lips, capture them and force them to silence a scream and he does; he has no choice.

There's a feeling of anticipation when his hips grind into yours, a short moment of ecstasy when he wraps around you, heated tightness, all encompassing and you thrust into him. You're proud that you're the reason he makes those delightful noises, each one sending a tingle down your spine. You run your hand down his spine and he groans, moving and writhing under you. You wish this never ends.

There's a feeling of dread when his hips cage the other, a short moment of pain when his hand wraps around the beaten throat, cold tightness, all encompassing and he digs into him. The other is dismayed that he's the reason your lover is this violent, flesh opened and eaten, devoured because his hunger can no longer be held back. He digs his hand into the other's stomach and he groans, moving and biting into him. The other wishes it would just end.

Push in deeper and you feel yourself close. He's moaning freely now, gripping the sheets with a fine layer of sweat on his skin. You kiss the tanned skin and smirk. She won't be able to say you're the woman in the relationship. He comes with a gasp, muscles clenching around you and you follow shortly. Now you lie in a heap, tangled, warm and tired. He promises he'll clean you up this time. You merely glare and he kisses it away. In this instant, you know you can't stay mad at him.

Push in deeper and the other feels himself close. He's tearing bits and pieces freely now, taking the parts into his mouth like a greedy pig. He licks the other's blood from mauled skin. The other won't be able to see his sister again. He finally closes jaws over a neck, muscles twitching and convulsing and the body goes silent. Now the other lies in a puddle of blood, cold, open and tired. He stares impassively. The other merely stares back with empty eyes. In this instant, the other is no longer here.

As you can see, those fingers, that mouth, that body which is now pressed close to you, playfully bathing you, these same body parts killed someone just hours ago. The person you love, who nuzzles your neck with a warm smile coldly killed and ate a person, without a resemblance of pity. The man who wraps his arms around you, dries you with love and adoration in his eyes has no regard for the others in the street. To him, only you and someone else are human.

Everybody else is a buffet.

So in other words, the comparison you made earlier of him being a soulless monster might not be so misdirected. The test is now finished. You may now open your eyes and are encouraged to live in ignorance for as long as you can.

After all, in a few months, you are going to die. Enjoy your life.

* * *

There's a yell that shakes the whole apartment building that even goes through Rebecca's earphones. She arrives to Shaun's room expecting some hand job incident or maybe Des bit too hard (teehee). Unfortunately, her hopes are smashed when she only sees the aforementioned man squinting at a leather bound tome with a strange 'A' symbol on its front. Not to mention there's a lack of Desmond. Oh, pooey.

"What's got your pantie's up in a notch?"

She gets a glass-glare and he grumbles under his breath.

"I don't get a single bloody thing this says. Not only is it written in Arabic, it's written in a _code._ It's going to take me forever to decode this crap thing and the bloody woman couldn't even send me some sort of sheet to help! I want my bloody money back!"

Rebecca slowly makes her way out of the room, interest now gone.

Shaun closes the book with a huff and glares to the cover. He stays like this for a few minutes, looking but not really looking while thinking about what he'll tell that wench (and it will be nice and long and rude) when he snaps back into attention. He grabs the book, eyes wide as he looks at the symbol in the front. He's seen it before. As a matter of fact, he saw it yesterday night in the back of someone, tattooed in the hollow of Desmond's back.

They're the _exact same symbol._

He can't help but stare at it. How can Desmond have this tattooed if this symbol is extremely rare? The only times he's seen it was when the lady sent a picture of how the Codex looked like and right now, here in his hand the actual image. Maybe he was part of the assassin order that he'd been studying about?

...

_Yeah right_. The book soared to his bed and he lay on the floor. Now his work was halted because of a stupid book with stupid symbols he couldn't read. Bloody fantastic. A smirk adorned his features as he remembered the other night. At the very least there was a silver lining to this.

He was _not_ the girl in the relationship.


	9. Add an 8 to 9

_14. those whose teeth are swords  
and whose jaws are set with knives  
to devour the poor from the earth  
and the needy from among mankind. _

_15. The leech has two daughters.  
__'Give! Give!' they cry._

_16. "There are three things that are never satisfied, _  
_four that never say, 'Enough!': _  
_the grave, the barren womb, _  
_land, which is never satisfied with water, _  
_and fire, which never says, 'Enough!'_

_Proverbs 30:14-16_

* * *

When he sleeps, he doesn't dream. They both don't dream. Kinda like when you try real hard, even think about it but it just doesn't work. He remembers though. His brain remembers and he just revives the whole thing. Lucy wanted to give it a medical term and she went for ironic, so it's now called the Bleeding Effect. It's when bits and pieces of lives long gone, people now dead or part of history keep coming back, like some old film on repeat. Funny how he always managed to get involved with people you read about in books today and no one seems to find him.

But that's also because he _doesn't_ want anyone to find him. If you squint hard enough though, you will. Just squint a bit.

He doesn't feel the freezing cold around him, or the bag or the metal. At this precise moment, his brain decided it's time for some quality mind fuck, because, hey, dood, it's been some time (like when he started spewing Italian and little ten year old Lucy just stared at him like he'd grown an extra head.) He feels sand under his bare feet, the cool wind of the night ruffling the cloths he's wearing because some time ago, he's given up the black robes he used to wear, the white that spoke of a high rank. He misses them so much, but like he could go back to that. He misses the sun as well.

Sometimes he thinks he'll just stand outside his place and just let the sun touch him.

Like Adha.

Instead of his whites and black, he wears nothing but dirty rags because they get messy anyway. Hey, you remember that one time, back in the day when-

"_D-Down there Master?"_

_A young man stares at the eldest. Some of his superiors are also here, but he feels like they won't be helping either him or his cousin._

"_You are being trialed with treason. Do you not think this is far better than a public execution? Would you rather take that path and dishonor us?"_

_The novice looked into the eyes of his Grandmaster and wondered if there was something else to this trial. He bit his lip and looked down into the mouth of the cave, deep and dark. He'd of it before, whispered in fear by the people of Masyaf. There were rumors that a beast laid there, a demon, dormant until its next victim was thrown to it._

"_Master, forgive my nerve, but how does walking through this cave help us prove that we are not betraying the order?"_

_The novice's eyes widened. How could Amjad, only one year his senior be so bold? Didn't he understand they were in serious trouble? His cousin kept glaring at their Master who merely smirked, the lone flap of his left sleeve flying desperately at his side. The other Master assassins merely stared at them, said nothing. He gave a gulp._

"_I have my own suspicions, but I fear I might be wrong. Inside this cane lies something which will clear my thoughts easily."_

_Khalid, in his assassin grays was given a torch as their Master pointed inside with his lone hand._

"_All you must do, is meet us at the end and all suspicions shall be cleared. It sounds much more pleasing than the execution, does it not?"_

_His cousin glared as the sand was blown between them, making the horses neigh with impatience. He took the torch, the flame billowing and made his way to the cave's entrance, though he muttered something as he passed his cousin._

"_Khalid."_

_He turned. Master A-Sayf watched him for a few seconds and smirked._

"_May Allah have you in His grace."_

_He nodded, although it felt like he was being made fun of and ran after his cousin._

* * *

"_Who does he think he is?"_

_Khalid is bored out of his mind. They keep going down until the sunlight no longer shines through the opening. He can't help but think of it as the mouth of a monster, open maws ready to devour them both._

"_There are enemies to fight and he sends us to-to some cave like children!"_

"_He merely wishes to confirm that we are innocent, Amjad."_

"_That is what angers me the most! Thinking we had anything with the leak in Jerusalem!"_

_The youngest only sighs as his relative keeps grumbling and snapping about the injustice of it all. He himself thinks this is rather tame. Back when Master Al-Mualim was still alive he'd heard the Master himself would kill you._

_"But I have to wonder... Why us? We were merely there at the same time, do you perhaps believe that we were-"_

_His head suddenly snapped up and they both stopped on their respective actions._

"_Did you hear that?"_

_They were both silent, the senses they had been trained to hone to perfection trying to find the noise again. It had sounded like the slip of skin against stone. Khalid wished he had his weapons but they had both been stripped of them. It had been the only condition._

"_It was probably the wind, nothing else we should probably-"_

_What they should probably do was cut off with a yell as they found a man slumped against a wall. Khalid smirked at his eldest cousin as he gripped his clothes, panicky and quick-breathed._

"_Is that your conscious?"_

"_Very amusing."_

"_It is, isn't it?"_

_Now they both started. The body (apparently), rose on shaky legs. He was a mess to see. What they could see of him was the bony things he called hands, each finger long and spindly, the ends finishing in blackened, falling nails. Of his face, they could only discern sunken cheekbones and a long, sharp nose. At times, Khalid have swore he saw the man's eyes, shinning a bright gold under his layers of torn rags, but with such terrible lighting..._

"_What are two children doing in a place such as this?"_

_Amjad scoffed. "We are not children, in case you cannot see. And I should ask you the same question! Are you part of the trial?"_

_The stranger's head leaned to the side, the rags making a soft hissing noise, but his face was still covered._

"_Trial? This is my home. May I ask why you are intruding it?"_

_Amjad decided it was best of him to talk instead of his cousin. He looked ready to break one of the tenets._

"_Master A-Sayf has sent us here as part of a trial. Do you know him?"_

_The stranger's head rose in response and he nodded, shuffling towards them._

"_We are… companions, though it has been some time since I last saw of him. How does he fare? Has his temper changed at all?"_

_The younger smiled. This person wasn't harmful, not to mention he was an innocent, so they could not harm him. If he knew of Master A-Sayf, then he probably knew of the trial as well, so speaking to him was safe, or so he presumed._

"_He is as fiery as before Master Ibn-la Ahad left us."_

"_I see."_

_The stranger began staggering away from them, shaking and almost tripping. Poor man. He must be weak with malnourishment. His forearms and sunken cheeks were a testament to it._

"_I suppose you would like to pass the whole cave alive, yes?"_

_They both perked up, Khalid stopping his ranting._

"_You know the way old man?"_

"_In darkness and in light."_

"_Then guide us."_

_The stranger chuckled, the sound resonating around the cavern's walls._

"_Why? Merely because you order me to? Under what right?"_

"_Please." The younger interrupted before his cousin began barreling insults. "We would appreciate if you could help us. If we can offer anything for you in exchange, we shall give it to you."_

_The ragged man seemed to think and he showed his hand. The torch was given to him and he chuckled again._

"_You cannot give it to me, not yet. But soon, I will have what I need and you shall obtain what you want."_

_He made his way towards a hole in the cavern and swiftly left the small chamber. Both cousins stared at each other quizzically._

"_Are you coming or shall I go?"_

_They followed._

* * *

_"If I may ask, what is your name?"_

_They're making their way through the cave and Khalid is grateful for his guidance. It's nothing but a large, dark maze and he has no doubt that without this man's help, they would be forever lost in its cavernous depths._

_"Altair."_

_They both start. "Master Altair?"_

_"No." He chuckles, the rags moving as he shakes his head. "Only Altair. I believe we have the same name. How strange, no?"_

_"Indeed, strange."_

_Khalid glares at Amjad who shrugs. Always disrespectful, even with elders._

_"You remind me of someone." The elder says, easily jumping up to a higher rock and they both stare. That's... impossible isn't it? "Are you coming?"_

_They both try to do the same thing but give up. After they maneuver and hurry by his side, he continuous talking._

_"This young man held no respect for anyone, believed himself to be the best out of many. Childish and irresponsible. He caused pain to someone dear to him because of his pride."_

_"Then he was a fool?"_

_"Like yourself, yes."_

_The younger chuckled under his breath as the eldest fumed._

_"Now, enough of that. Tell me, what is this trial of yours?"_

_"There have been some leaking of information in Jerusalem. At the time, both myself and my cousin where there and Master A-Sayf believes one of us to be a traitor."_

_The man stopped and hummed._

_"Those are serious accusations."_

_Amjad snorted. "Seriously un-funded. He merely though it to be us because we are still Informants. I wished to change from branch but Master A-Sayf insists I am not the right candidate to become an assassin. What does he know? He is too old and one handed!"_

_"Amjad!"_

_"It is true! And you know it!"_

_"Regardless of what is or is not true, we must adhere to what the Master dictates! If this allows us to be free from suspicion, then so be it! I sincerely believed we would be killed!"_

_"There was no reason for the accusation to begin with! We were found near the body of one of our own and they immediately cry 'Traitor'!"_

_"But the Jerusalem bureau was almost compromised afterwards! What if whoever arrived before myself or you killed our brother for the information? Or to silence him even!"_

_"Now you are speaking like Master A-Sayf! You are calling me a traitor!"_

_"I am doing no such thing! Please understand!"_

_The ragged man observed as they bickered, the younger defending A-Sayf and the elder bad mouthing him. The golden eyes glared at the elder. He could hear his heart, loud and thunderous. They haven't noticed that he has stopped in a large open space of the cave, the sound of running water far away. Or that he places the torch in a hoop in the wall and turns to them._

_"Regardless of what may have or not have happened, what is or is not true, you must remember the Order's maxim. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Now settle down, we are close to the exit."_

_Both perked up and stared at each other confused. This was it? Well that was disappointing. Maybe the Master knew they were both innocent? Although, Khalid was a bit confused. This man knew of their Creed? Then perhaps he had once been an assassin?_

_"But before we continue, I must ask. You are Amjad, correct?"_

_His cousin glared and nodded._

_"Tell me, what did the Templars promise to you in return?"_

_They both became dead silent._

_"_What?"

_"The Templars. Our enemies. A higher rank perhaps? Maybe a recognition of your abilities? The rise of rank you were denied?"_

_"What are you saying you old fool! You believe me to be-!"_

_"The traitor? Yes. Tell me, do you know what an Alukah is?"_

_"A what?"_

_Khalid blinked, feeling a sudden sense of dread. The man's eyes... they, they were gold, and they were shinning in the darkness, like an animal's._

_"It's a demon is it not?" He answered through the knot in his throat. "My grandfather would tell me stories about them. They were once human, but became monsters who feed on the flesh of the dead and the blood of the living."_

_The man nodded. "Yes, that is true, but well, _nothing is true_... Alright then. Let us begin the trial now shall we?"_

_"You are the trial?" Amjad was staring incredulously at this old man. "This is nonsense! You are making an assumption out of-"_

_He suddenly snapped his mouth shut and stared as the shawl covering the stranger's face was finally lowered. Khalid felt every muscle in his body freeze, trembling from head to foot at what was underneath. Besides him, Amjad screamed._

_He was... _

_By Allah, his face... _

_He couldn't properly explain. The words seemed insignificant to what he saw, and to place an assassin in such level of terror is no easy feat. The flesh that should be covering his cheeks was gone, almost ripped out, for there were strips of flesh still desperately holding it together. His teeth were nothing but sharp fangs, each and every single one of them, and you could see them all because his jaw was so open. And those eyes... Gold and shinning, even with the torch light barely lighting them. _

_They shone. They were not human. _It _could not be human._

_They were hungry, no, ravenous._

_He wanted to run, to scream, anything but he couldn't he couldn't!_

_Amjad could. He ran away, screaming at the top of his lungs and Khalid merely watched. The thing (it couldn't be human, it couldn't) moved too quickly and was upon his cousin, grabbing him by the neck and easily raising him. All he did was watch as Amjad struggled, choking, eyes pleading. He should move. He should help. Why couldn't he move!_

_"So tell me. What did they promise?" It hissed, tongue flicking out to lick sharp teeth. "Was it worth it?"_

_They both gagged. The stench from the creature reminded him of the carcass of a horse he'd seen when he was a child. It reeked, invaded the senses and became corrosive, festering. He could still envision the protruding ribs, the flies above it. It began to bring the elder closer to him with that enormous smile, saliva running down its chin and finally Khalid screamed. The young novice would speak to no one of the incident after the beast was done. The only thing he could say was that it devoured his cousin, alive and screaming, ripping skin and flesh and organs like papyrus. Even the bones were consumed._

_He was now on the floor, still trembling, staring at this creature as it rose from the remains of his cousin and when it turned, he couldn't help but stare. It was no longer emaciated, and the skin on his face was back and his mouth and the rags were covered in blood. He now understood why they were such a dark color of brown. His eyes still shone gold, but he looked far healthier, far younger._

_And he recognized him._

_"M-Master Ibn-la Ahad..."_

_It (not human, not human) stalked towards him and he finally reacted, tried to run away but its hold was firm and he was raised, the old (how did he look so young?) Master smirking._

_"Speak of this and you shall be next."_

_And then he was soaring through the air as the Master easily through him over a high rock formation, down to the water covered slide and away from the monster and off to freedom._

* * *

_Khalid shakily walked towards his Master, his assassin grays smeared with mud and blood. There was no one but the one armed man who looked at him with no surprise. He feel on his knees in front of him, body trembling._

_"So I was right. How is Altair?"_

_The novice merely stared at him, breathing hard. Until he showed the Master the content of his bowels on the floor._

_"I see. What you have seen, you can tell no one, understood? If you do, I'm afraid he'll follow you and he will not stop until he has consumed you."_

_The novice shook but nodded, wiping his mouth, the desert wind making feel feverish. Malik walked towards the two horses waiting for them, followed by the still trembling novice._

_"W-What was..."_

_"Nothing." Malik cut out._

_The novice kept staring at him with shock and turned to look at the cave. He could have sworn he saw someone walk back in._

_"But... you told us he was..."_

_"Gone. He is, in a manner of speaking. And as I said before, I shall appreciate it if you keep silent."_

_"But why was he in that state! I do not understand! He was weak and then he looked perfectly-"_

_Khadil went silent as Malik turned._

_"P-pardon me, Master. I'll speak to no one of this."_

_"Good. No one will believe you either way."_

* * *

_The window was wide open, letting the air breeze in smoothly as Malik finished the last of the written work. He wasn't overly fond of it. It reminded him too much of his time as a Dai and that was something he did not like to recall. He heard a soft rustling and sighed, not taking his eyes from the paper._

_"You were too harsh. He won't even speak."_

_The ex-Rafiq glared at the man sitting placidly in the window._

_"My apologies. But if I hadn't done that, he would have spoken, wouldn't he?"_

_The glare seemed to intensify and he approached the man with an amused smirk._

_"That is not the point, Altair."_

_"Then what is the point?"_

_"The point, Altair, is that_

you are not listening to me."

Desmond blinked. Shaun glared.

"What?"

"Yes, exactly, what were you doing? I'm aware I'm handsome but you can't stare at me like that all the time. I hope you were not imagining our next 'encounter' because if you were, I assure you there won't be a next."

Desmond blinked again and rubbed his eyes, giving a little grumble. The Brit sighed. He'd have these little episodes some times. Just stop and stare. Then he'd blink himself awake and blurt something he didn't understand and then shrug it off like it was nothing. It worried him because as they spent more time together, they seemed to happen more often.

"Are you alright, pet?"

"I have a nickname now?"

"Don't dodge the question. Yes or no will do."

The DS he had been playing with was closed and he shrugged, cracking his neck as Shaun winced. He stood up, stretching a bit while the glasses were taken off and cleaned.

"I'm still waiting."

"I'm ok, mom."

"Hilarious of you, really. First time I try to show a semblance of concern and the first thing you do is slap it off with sarcasm. I'm never showing any sort of affection for you, ever again."

There was a chuckle and Desmond sat down besides him again, the couch so old and worn but too comfortable to throw away (and plus, they were too bloody expensive). There _was_ something wrong because he leaned his head on Shaun's shoulder and closed his eyes again, one arm snaking behind the other and holding his waist loosely.

"Just... something I remembered. I've been a little out of whack, had an argument with Lucy. But I'm ok."

The parkourist kissed the historian's shoulder with a wide smirk.

"_Because I have you~"_

"Oh don't you bloody start."

Desmond laughed.

* * *

_"Malik?"_

_"Yes, Altair."_

_"Why did you not end me? That time when I... well, before I became this."_

_"I thought of it."_

_"And?"_

_"It is not important. Regardless, if it was necessary, I would have done it. But you have turned out to be a rather good enemy-eater."_

_"That is not amusing."_

_"It is for me. You owe it to me."_

_"I owe you too much."_

_"And it matters not. Now leave me. I, unlike you, need to rest."_

_"Malik, one last thing, before you sleep."_

_"What now?"_

_"If I... Have you ever considered being... like me?"_

_"... It happened to you for a reason. But I do not know what your change entails. If I followed, what of Maria? My wife and children? What of the Order?"_

* * *

Desmond watched Shaun sleep. Ha, he felt like Edward Cullen now. Creepo. Except he'd been kinda sorta asked to stay instead of standing outside his window and stared in (yeah, he could see the stalker potential in it. Huh? You wanna know why kinda sorta? Well, the thing was, he'd had this sort of banter about him playing Pokemon and Shaun calling him immature an maybe dropped hints about being 'teached' to be a little older. Sly? Who him?)

You know how he's always spouting these corny lines? All these 'I love you's left and right? Well, see, back in the day, he didn't say it enough. He wasn't going to make the same mistake twice (_Cristina)_.

And in a way, when he was with Shaun, it hurt, in some weird good way. He'd see little shadows of people that were dead now, people he'd loved, people he'd cared for. This little instances were he got mad, he could see Malik. When he became excited over some new history thing he learned, he would be reminded of an inventor he'd known, and his scorn/playful teasing would bring Cristina or Maria to mind. Those moments when he was gentle, rare and in between as they were, would bring Adha to his mind.

It would hurt, but just like them, Shaun was unique in his own right, so it was ok. It hurt, sure, but hell if the good things in life aren't a pain in the ass (he's got centuries worth of experience to back that one up.)

He glares at the window and wished he could stay longer but hell, he's not about to become some crispy Desmond plate just because he didn't head out early. .Maybe he'll stay just a few more minutes. He slipped his arms around Shaun and smirked when he cuddled closer. Ha, guy's a total closet cuddler. He hoped this turned out ok. He liked this too much. The silence, the warm nights like these, even the bickering. He wanted them to last forever.

_They could be._

No, no. He was _not_ doing that. He'd done it once and look how Sixteen turned out. And Adha. Even now, they image still _burned_ clearly in his mind, and that was an accomplishment because some of his memories were kinda rusty. Hey, you try to remember over eight hundred years worth of memories, see if it's so easy. Not to mention the human brain wasn't all that good to begin with memories, so nyah.

Gold eyes close, just for a little bit, because he can't really sleep, just go into his coma thing, or whatever it's called and because he just wants to hear Shaun's heartbeat. It's nice and constant and he feels lulled by it, instead of the usual _eattearshattergivegivedrink_ horrid mess he always thinks. For now, he's content with what he has; the future can go fuck itself for all he cares. Everyone for that matter. Yeah! Fuck them all! With burning lemons! He chuckled quietly. He was playing too much Portal 2. He should tease Shaun tomorrow about it and call him Wheatly. He nuzzled the Brit and felt him nuzzle back, mumble under his breath about 'wankers' and he felt the warmth in his chest and he felt so fucking corny, but to hell with it.

A human being only lives so much and he's going to take as much as Shaun gives him until U 2 h h d W 4 g a X M g Z 2 9 p b m c g d G 8 g Z G l l I G l u I G V 4 Y W N 0 b H k g O C B t b 2 5 0 a H M s I D I 4 I G R h e X M s I D E 1 I G h v d X J z L C A 1 O S B t a W 5 1 d G V z I G F u Z C A z M i B z Z W N v b m R z Base64

* * *

_18. There are three things that are too amazing for me, _  
_four that I do not understand: _

_19. the way of an eagle in the sky, _  
_the way of a snake on a rock, _  
_the way of a ship on the high seas, _  
_and the way of a man with a young woman._

_Proverbs 30:18-19_


	10. Switch Up

_I have to apologize. Two months, not a note and I just upped and abandoned you. But, here is an extra long chapter, which if I'm honest, was painful to write. Not so much the subject (I'm great on it), but the plot itself starts to thicken (there's a plot?), not to mention writer's block decided to finally rear it's head. We also opened up a clinic and it's been a bit hectic. On top of that Homestuck happened (someone send a rescue unit)._

_The truth? I was being a lazy bastard. I think Procrastination's my second name._

_Thank you to everyone who has both favorited and story alerted this silly thing, because thanks to you, Monster is still alive (kinda)._

* * *

"Ever seen a scene like this?."

A blonde cop made a face, something between a grimace and a look of pity, at the remains of a ripped body. Sure, death was normal in Chicago, but damn, there were bits and pieces all across the alley and the blood splatters were over exaggerated. Hell, it even looked like some monster flick was taking place instead of, you know, actual real-life scenario crime scene. Whatever had attacked the, err, person wasn't human but that came to a stop when you factored in the lack of hands, feet and head. Whatever 'it' was had wanted to keep their victim unrecognizable. It sent a chill down his spine and it looked like he wasn't the only one. Most officers in the scene were so unsettled they were giving the rooftops nervous glances.

A woman, also blonde, bit her lip as she took another picture of the woman's body, but her eyes kept darting over to the carnage with obscene fascination.

"Oh, c'mon Daniel, you're taking the fun out of forensics! It's like we're in a novel, or a tv show or something, like CSI and this is our very own chapter. But it's odd isn't it? The male, well, _what's left of him_ got all ripped up and the girl just has this lone cut to her stomach." She takes another picture and pouts, more in concentration than confusion. "Maybe he didn't have the heart to rip her apart?"

"Hannah, please stop trying to feel sorry for whoever did this, it's freakish. Maybe some psycho decided to take advantage of the." The cop made hyphen motions with his fingers. "Animal attacks' that have been happening lately. But tell you what. I think it's all bullshit, and I think I have a pretty good idea what's actually going on."

"Nice to know both of your opinions."

The blonde officer straightened out while the female chuckled, going back to searching for more clues.

"Ah, Sgt. Bellamy, sorry we were just-"

"I know, I know. What with all these attacks you'd think someone would raise a brow, but you throw the general public something like an animal attacking and they're calmed down. It doesn't help that the zoo's lion escaped."

Officer Hannah Mueller went over to the mangled remains and took another set of pictures while Daniel Cross rummaged through the girl's bag. Sergeant Paul Bellamy watched the scene with a frown in his face, not at all comfortable with what he was seeing. This was, at the very least, the thirty-third attack since December of last year and they still had no leads. Cross rummaged through the girl's bag and gave a victory whoop.

"Well, well, at least our girl has a name. Leila Marino, age twenty-seven, born right here in the Windy City. Poor gal, she lived just a couple more blocks from here."

Hannah frowned and reached to the ground at something that shimmered, just barely in the ground with the wide-eyed curiosity of a fiver year old. "Add something more to the odd list."

She raised, with the tip of her pen, a lone necklace with a rather strange metal amulet. It seemed like some sort of 'A'.

"I don't think this is Choppy's."

"Did you just call our Jack Doe, 'Choppy'?"

She chuckled, placing the necklace in an evidence bag. This woman had such a weird sense of humor. Then again, homicide department was full of weird humored people so, what have you. Their captain clapped his hands, gaining everyone's attention.

"Alright people. We have work to do, I want to know who this man was, and I want it yesterday. Cross, tell Vidic that our 'animal attacks' aren't what we thought. I think he'll want to do a press conference for that one."

He nodded and began to walk towards his unit. With his luck, he'd probably get all the paperwork topped on him like always, and if it worked out like always he'd also have to file the goddamn paper work and. He stopped suddenly. He felt a chill suddenly, something cold, familiar, even felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He quickly looked up at the roof, blue eyes wide and paranoid. There was nothing there, but just seconds ago, he could have sworn something was watching him. Ok, too many horror films, gotta stop that. He shook his head, entered his unit and left.

On the roof and safely hidden from the commotion, a lone hooded figure snarled and jumped away quickly.

* * *

Rebecca had had enough. She wanted to know. If she and Shaun were known for one thing in particular, it was poking their noses where they didn't belong (her by being the biggest conjunction of gossip in the entire campus and Shaun by searching up conspiracy theories. Mmm, _gossip._)

Desmond at the moment was her biggest kink.

_Ever_.

She'd searched his social security number, his birth certificate, his credit history, hell, even his job status and taxes, and you know what she found?

Nothing.

Nada.

Absolutely, and utterly _nothing. _Not even a Facebook! What sort of illiterate shit did not have a Facebook? Or a tumblr!

This of course, was done behind Shaun's back because the dumbass was so utterly enamored with Des that he didn't fucking _see _that there was something inherently _strange_ about him. But seriously, that was grade-A creep. How the hell did he get those odd jobs Lucy said he had? Did he even _really _have a job? She'd start on something like being illegally in the country like her bff Beatriz, but Des didn't look Hispanic. Actually, he did kinda look Italian...

Getting out of context here, Beccs. Now she found herself completely immersed trying to find _any_ records on the parkourist, because A) she was bored as fuck and this was real fun, not like the fuck ass boring raids she'd been on as of late (school work could go fuck itself) and B) what if the guy was being searched by the cops or something?

She was the official ass saver for Shaun, so she couldn't just leave it at that. What if he got himself killed or something? Fat chance that was going to happen on her shift. If she'd saved him from getting run over by a truck once, she could save him from some creepy stalker (even if said stalker was handsome).

But, see, that was her problem. She was already two months on this like a hound and she found nothing, and now it was actually worrying her. How could the entire information of one man just not be there? It couldn't be through hacking, unless he was a government official, but that was a negative (yes, she'd checked.)

So no birth certificate, thus, no social, no credit, no taxes, not even pictures, and worse off, no address either, not even a P.O. Box. Did that mean he was a hobo? It didn't make sense to her. She was going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

She wasn't about to let Shaun get hurt.

Guy still owed her twenty bucks.

* * *

"What is it Vidic."

"Mr. Rikkin, we have a more detailed report on the attacks. It appears it's human in nature."

"'Appears to be'? I need more details, Vidic."

"The bites found in the remains were not only too long, but also too small to be of a large feline. We also found what seems to be a tooth inside another victim's spleen. A witness also reported that whatever it was that's attacking our people was human."

"We have a serial killer on the loose?"

"I'm afraid so. The worst part is we found a body in the river. It's neck had been ripped open and when the autopsy came in, the body turned out to be, well, bloodless."

"A serial killer with a blood _and_ cannibal fetish? The tabloids are going to be delighted with this. I'll inform the media, but they don't need to know about the vampire-like draining. We don't need this to become a scandal bigger than it already is. No fingerprints, no leads, nothing. The best we can do right now is warn everybody to watch their backs."

"There's something else."

"Yes?"

"The woman we found, Leila Marino, she was untouched. She has no family, but perhaps Ms... Lucy Stillman can answer why she was out so late."

* * *

He's done his research. As a matter of fact, he's poured more hours into this than any of his works combined. He's rather proud to admit that he's so informed on the subject, he could very well get a Ph.D. on it. But then again, arriving at some party and telling people you're the master of all things sex between two men is your area of expertise is not the best conversation opener. He understands the positions now, knows of the prostate which is what makes Desmond moan like a whore (and yell louder at the dirty talk), and understands the importance of stimulation as well as the use of the condom, because he's only slept with one person, but god knows that with that face, Desmond sure as bloody hell has slept around.

What he _doesn't_ get is how a guy like Desmond (Mr. Parkour, Mr. I'm-so-bloody-manly-with-my-ripped-body, Mr. I-exhude-testosterone-with-my-stupid-tattooes-and-my-stupid-bike-and-all-the-other-crap-I-own) is rather complacent about who does or doesn't top. And in the process how this makes _him_ the girl in the relationship.

Isn't the one in the receiving end the girl by default?

Then why the bloody hell do both Rebecca and Lucy insist _he's_ the girl? No, he is not obsessing about it, stop looking at him like that! No, he is not having either a fit or an aneurism because of it either, thank you very much! It doesn't make sense. He'll be adamant to admit it, but he seriously thought the one to receive was him and yet _somehow, _Desmond was the one being pounded into and he was_ still the bloody girl in the relationship!_ It didn't add up! So he decided to throw caution to the wind and actually did something he never thought possible, something he'd only be caught dead doing.

He asked the Internet for advice.

Yes, he knows, horrid. Somebody call the loony bin, Mr. Hastings has officially lost it. But he posts the question anonymously in a gay forum and leaves it like that, hoping that he'll receive an answer or two.

He receives three hundred.

In the _first hour._

He barely reads through the first five before he abruptly gives up because they're too graphic and at the same time too detailed for his tastes (and vulgar.) Wonderful really to read about how one man tends to have 'hide-and-fuck' night. He does not need the details.

It's not like he can suddenly go up to Desmond and say 'Hey mate! Would you like to bugger me tonight? After all you mentioned position wasn't important to you, so what do you say?' An attention getter he's sure, but not one he's willing to say out loud. May the beast the woman wrote of devour him before he willfully _begs_ for sex. It's mundane and ridiculous.

He grumbles under his breath and pages idly through the Codex, something that seems to soothe him with a strange sense of familiarity. He's amazed at how well preserved it is, or the fact that he can thumb through it without any protective gear (oh he knows how delicate these things are and what a pain in the arse they can be to handle). Asking was out the window. Advice from a third party, no thank you. His eyes widened and he snapped the book closed.

Oh, he had an idea now.

He smirked. So not the _best idea, _but an idea nonetheless and one he was sure had to work. A man can last only so much with blue balls. The plan was simple. Every time Desmond made a move, he'd reject it, ignore him, or make as if he had something more important to do. There was a flaw to his plan, but it was easily lamp shaded with the fact that Desmond was male, and thus, he tended to think with the head on his pants. Then again, Desmond wasn't the most aggressive person he'd met (he always bent to his whims. Among other things) so there was the drawback of the blue balls being suffered by himself. Not to mention Desmond always backed off when he said he didn't want to do anything...

To bloody hell! If it worked, it worked, if not, then he'd just forget the issue altogether, dammit! It wasn't in his list of imperatives to get buggered in the ass anyways! (Nobody could look into his head and laugh at the fact that he _did_ want to get buggered.)

Not that he could actually carry the plan out right now. He hadn't seen the bloke in very well over a week. Not even a bloody text. He glared at the Codex and began paging through it, stopping at page and looking without looking. He blinked at the man in the picture and gave a hum. He has a hood on, with leather straps on his chest, but what makes him squint a bit is the scar.

On his lips.

He stares. Now, that's just a coincidence isn't it? He reads through the text, someone else's handwriting along the lines of the margin and under the torso of the drawing. If he reads correctly, the Codex explained about the ascension to power of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. A betrayal by Al Mualim, who left the Assassin's in a state of turmoil because of his allegiance to the Templars, a fight against Altaïr's former Master and his subsequent disappearance to stop Genghis Khan, blah blah, blah, he-d already read that. It had little notes as well of a malady, a disease of some sort that the writer described as more of a curse, something the writer desperately sought the cure to.

Shaun snorted and tossed the Codex to his bed. It was like some horrid fan fiction (and had he read some) and about history of all things with real people. Who in the bloody blazes would waste their time writing ridiculous made up stories about non-existent or even dead people? The front door opened and he heard Rebecca hustling about, cussing to herself.

"How was your day?"

More cussing. He snickered. Good to know the world (or at least his roommate) was just as miserable as him. He peaked out to watch her drag something.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Just chillaxin' here, Shaun, would it kill you to fucking help me out?"

He smirked. "Well depends on what you're dragging in."

"Dude, shut _up_ and just help me already!"

Death to those who assure that Shaun smirked, because he's too suave for that (no, on second thought, he did smirk.) He helped her, of course, because he was a gentleman, even if she wasn't such a gentle woman herself, and because his curiosity was getting the best of him.

"Where in the blazes did you get all these stupid things from?" He opened one of the boxes to find old files, books and magazines. "No, wait, don't answer that, more importantly, why do you have them? Is this a new ploy to make your room even less habitable?"

"Part of a project. Dude wanted a password, I wanted this. Fair trade and all that."

Englishman with a frown, coming through. "Because giving away sensitive information for useless information is an obvious fair trade."

"Obviously."

He sighed, no longer wanting to know. A folder caught his attention and he opened it, eyebrow raised and critical. Old records from sometime around the 1940's. Oh wonderful, she was investigating the old illegal trade of alcohol. Only Rebecca. For a second, he wants to keep looking, because his inner Historian is interested, but he merely leafs through the folder and places it back with the others, helping Becca with the rest of the boxes.

If you squint, you can see a picture slide out and fall under the couch.

* * *

"Mss. Stillman?"

Lucy blinks out of her reverie, wondering if Leila's ever going to show up so she can have her day off. Where was she anyway? Instead, she gets these two who flash police badges and she pales(mentally). Had they found out? Was she a clue to get to Desmond and Sixteen?

"Detective Vidic and Officer Cross, we're here to ask you some questions."

She placed her best smile, the one she always used when her Dad was in a particularly grouchy (or in his I'm-way-older-than-you-let-me-sulk-dammit moods).

"How can I help you Detective? You here for some specs about a body?"

"No, we're here because of Mss. Marino."

Her smile fell. "Leila?"

"We found her dead earlier this week. You were on her speed dial and we wanted to ask you if she was in any sort of illegal behavior."

After dead, all Lucy heard was a whistling noise. Dead. She took a gulp, eyes wide, unbelieving. The last thing she'd spoken to her was a warm goodbye, see you tomorrow. Why hadn't the body been sent here? Did they send her to another hospital? Blonde hair shook with her in a negative, though she kept all of her internal questions to herself.

"No, not that I know of. I mean, she was a good friend of mine. I would've known if she was into anything bad."

The officer took out a little pad and wrote down what she said. She bit her lip and thought. Maybe she could get Des to check this.

"I see. Ma'am, we ask you this because we found her with a knife wound. The thing is, on the crime scene, there was... well, scattered gore, and the only hand we managed to find matched not only the remains, but the fingerprints on the knife as well."

It felt like her stomach was being filled with lead. The officer kept asking her questions, gave her his phone number, asked her to keep in check, but inside, she could feel a deep seething _rage_. Desmond had been there, him, along with Sixteen. The description of carnage was not lost to her, she knew perfectly well how... 'excited' Sixteen got when he was hungry. Had he stood by and watched as Sixteen fed while her best friend simply died? As she bled herself to death? She waved the officers goodbye with a tight smile and minutes after they were gone, she screamed.

Betrayal is such an ugly thing to feel, but what could she do? No, the real question here was, why hadn't he done a single thing to get her somewhere safe? Save her like he'd done countless times with other people? With Shaun? Even after her shift had ended (a shift that no longer would be filled by Leila, she thought bitterly, angrily)she still felt angry. The sense of betrayal would not leave and had her gripping the steering wheel too tightly (and as a matter of fact, she didn't even want to use the fucking thing. It had been a gift from Desmond when she'd graduated).

Fuck this. She'd had enough. Every time she thought that maybe, _maybe_, Desmond did have some humanity in him, he went and did something, something like _this._ She parked out of the warehouse, got out, feeling the anger still pumping through her veins like battery acid. She wanted answers, no fuck that, she wanted _retribution_. This had been brewing for some time and she was not going to back down just because he was a centuries old vampire that could kill her with just a flick of his wrist. She was sick and tired of being intimidated into submission when something liked this sprang up.

Lucy walked with long strides towards the large fridge room where both Desmond and Sixteen were actually being complacent with each other. It was rare for them to play like they were, peaceful, placid, with Sixteen lucid enough to play cards, but she didn't care. She approached the man that had raised her, given her a home and enough of a push to educate herself. This man who she called father. The man who called her daughter, who loved her and was there for her, through the good and the bad.

"H-H-Hi Lucy!" Sixteen beamed, hands full of cards, feet swinging excitedly on his stool. His smile wavered as she abruptly forced Desmond to look at her, turning his seat with determination.

"Woah, Luce, what's wr-"

She slapped him.

Sixteen yelped, as if he'd received the slap. Desmond blinked several times, eyes wide and confused. He turned up towards her, wanting to ask but she slapped him again.

"L-L-Lucy!"

"Why! Why didn't you help her!"

Desmond still had that confused look, both cheeks red, but she knew that would disappear shortly. Sixteen was shivering now, though the cold had nothing to do with it. She snarled and _punched_ him.

"Why didn't you help Leila!"

No answer, but there was recognition in his eyes. She didn't care. She kept punching him, feeling sick satisfaction when his nose gave under her blows. Sixteen gave an anguished screech and jumped, looking down at the assault from a rafter, yelling and begging her to stop. She did, eventually, when he had a split lip, the broken nose, several bruises and a black eye. It didn't help at all though. It didn't stop the tears from falling. Sixteen was giving a pitiful wail, long and sorrowful and she was dimly aware that he was going into hysterics.

"You could have helped her." It was hard keeping her voice even.

"She wasn't family."

The blonde blinked. Had he just..?

"_What?" _

"She wasn't family. Contrary to what you think Luce, I don't go around helping each and every single person I see in trouble."

"Oh, but you helped Shaun back when you didn't even know him."

"Don't you get Shaun into this." He snarled. It shook her a bit, seeing his eyes go from the calm brown to that inhuman gold, but she stood firm.

"He isn't family either and he's my friend. Is it because you couldn't fuck Leila? Is that-"

"_Don't you fucking start, Stillman_."

Now she froze. He never cussed at her. Never. He'd tease her with 'Lucy Miles' now and then, so for him to be using her actual last name meant she'd crossed the line. Her blue eyes, however, kept glaring, incensed further as she watched the lip begin to mend itself, the bruises begging to fade away. He stood up, the black eye residing and by the time he was right there in front of her, the only traces of him being beaten up was a thin sliver of blood coming from his nose. His pupils were switching from thin to wide. She could guess the smell was agitating him.

"I'm not going to explain to you every single thing I do. I didn't save your friend because she was already dying. What? You wanted me to Turn her? We know how great I am with that."

Lucy's eyes momentarily rose to where Sixteen sat huddled in the rafter, giving soft sobs and muttering to himself. She bit her lower lip, frustrated above the maelstrom of emotions she felt.

"It's what humans don't get. There's one option open and they take it without even thinking about the consequences. I don't help someone you know and you decided it's alright and dandy to get pissed off at me. To make matters worse, Sixteen lost the Creed I gave him and the fucking cops found it, and to make that even fucking _peachier_, we were on the news tonight! They're warning people to be careful, not to travel alone and all that shit that makes feeding more of a hassle. You think I'm going to worry about some dead woman that isn't my problem? She was dying, we were starving. Just be fucking happy we didn't eat _her."_

Desmond all but walked out, snarling under his breath but Lucy spoke up.

"The police came to my job, asked questions. Don't worry, _Altair,_ I didn't say anything concerning either of you."

His eyes became slits as he looked behind his shoulder and this time, she did shiver. Even after all these years living with him and she couldn't help but feel that he wasn't human every time she looked into those gold eyes. There was... something wrong. A coldness, something that should have died centuries ago.

Sixteen jumped down and nervously shuffled towards her, hugging her and patting her back. It was only then that she finally let out a terrified sob, the gold still imprinted in her mind's eye and she cried. She cried because she was both frustrated and terrified, and the worst part was that there was nothing she could do. Going to the police and admitting to knowing who the murderer was would be useless because she had the sinking feeling that Desmond would get to her first, daughter or not.

Sixteen cooed gently at her, silver eyes shining and staring at the place where the other had just left.

* * *

It's quite surprising when a minute from finally entering lucid sleep, his cellphone decides to go off, not to mention that it's _Desmond _and that's the only real reason why he gets up (if it had been on of his teammates he'd tossed his cellphone. _Out the window_)_. _It's just a text, yes, but the words _Buzz me in_ are the most he's heard from him in weeks. He grumbles under his breath and gets up wondering if instead of a boyfriend he has a cat.

At least Desmond doesn't leave hairballs.

He buzzes him and sits on the couch, bleary-eyed and blinking owlishly, holding the red bathrobe close (and his only viable source of warmth at the moment. He should have at least worn a pair of the bloody git starts making _any_ comments about it, he'd kick him out, no 'ands' 'ifs' or 'buts' allowed). He's not completely sure if he zones out or not because what feel like seconds later, Desmond's entering quietly and shuffling his hoodie off.

"Did you fly from the first floor?"

Dumbfounded is a good emotion to describe what he feels when Desmond actually glares at him. There's a quick flash of something, but Shaun's too pissy and too sleepy to care.

"Yeah, and then I came here to suck your blood off."

"If we're going to go about with vampire references, then I taste terrible."

"That's what you think."

Shaun raises a brow because for a second there, it doesn't sound like a joke and he feels a chill. "Bad vampires jokes aside, what's gotten your knickers up in a bunch?"

"Knickers?" And now he's smiling, as if a second ago he didn't look like he was going to rip something to shreds. "Who uses 'knickers' in a normal conversation?"

Patience is a saint's virtue. Shaun is not a saint. "Why are you here, Desmond?"

The smile he had a minute ago vanishes. He is the owner of Desmond, bipolar cat extraordinaire. Yours for only twelve easily forgotten installments of something ninety-nine. "You don't call in weeks and then you suddenly reappear at-"He squints, looks at his cellphone and groans "four in the bloody morning. Is this going to be constant because if that's the bloody case, I don't think I want to be a part of it."

"You too?" He's bearing his teeth like some animal, and for a second he has the oddest thought. It's something cold and almost-he mentally shakes it off.

"The sentence is too vague for me and I honestly _do not care _at this moment."

"Fuck you, Shaun."

"Oh, excuse me if it turns out I wasn't the sob and comfort pillow you were looking for. Do you want me to go search for it though?"

They're both standing quite close now, although he's not certain when he got up. Might have been all the pent up stress and anger he's had as of late. He's seconds away from punching the bloody idiot (he's sure he's going to lose but he has no patience or self-preservation instinct left on him. Here lies, Shaun Hastings. Got killed in a brawl. Knew he couldn't win but got the satisfaction of punching an arsehole.)

"For fuck's sake, I get here from having to fight with Lucy and you want to fight too? What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

"How about we start with the fact that you can be an ungrateful bastard! I have patience, but I'm sure you also have your limits! It happened once and this is the bloody second time you just leave me hanging. I am not going to pine over your absence and then accept you with open arms like some bloody woman!"

The thought of punching Desmond had crossed his mind but now he realizes with a sort of shock and sick satisfaction that he didn't just think it. They're both dumbstruck, Shaun staring at his now throbbing fist and Desmond gingerly touching his bleeding lip. It's odd how hormones and moods work because seconds after, like some goddamn switch being turned on, they're kissing, desperate and harsh. Bloody hell Desmond has never kissed him like this before, angry and demanding, groping with force to the point where it actually hurts.

What were they fighting about?

He doesn't have a bleeding clue, because by the Queen he's snarling, mouth moving from lips to neck and _oh God_ he bites him. It's not even one of those little 'teeth grazes skin' bites, no bugger that, it's 'I'm going to rip your skin open, so fuck you!' bites. He can feel the droplets slide from the wound but they're quickly lapped away with a moan and Shaun feels a spike of momentary fear. Is this really Desmond? It can't be, not with the way his hand abruptly reaches down and carries him up, grinding their hips together. It seriously can't be him, not with the way he's ripping the bathrobe open and forcing everything away. Or how easily he's holding him up with that one arm, hips in a constant movement and _is this really Desmond?_

The same fingers that had been gentle now leave angry, red marks on his skin and he digs blunt nails into the clothed back. The resulting groan makes him shiver and he feels his back hit the wall. When the hell had the idiot moved? His eyes closed as he felt another brush and he grabbed the black shirt, forcing him to kiss him again but also trying to get the blasted thing off. His other leg wraps around his waist and they both moan as they grind again. If this keeps up he's sure they're going to have an unwanted mess.

"Wait, wait."

"_What?_"

"_Lube _you bloody wanker. You either go get it or I'll punch you again."

"You-You son of a bitch!"

Shaun paled a bit as he was boxed. See, now he wanted a rape whistle. And pushing him was out of the question because he'd fall flat on his ass. He felt him thrust again and he bit back a moan, brown eyes confused at the sheer _rage_ in Desmond's eyes. Where had the adorkable bloke run off to? Wasn't he the one always either angry or irritated? Though if he were honest he was feeling a bit of a thrill at this little display of domi-. No, never mind, he's confused, only confused.

"You think I'm some inconsiderate fuckass who's just going to fuck you raw? Is _that_ what you want or is that what you _need?"_

As he said this he gave another thrust, though a lot harder. It made him hiss and arch because it was borderline painful and _bloody hell_ he'd actually _liked _it.

"I have enough problems on my goddamn bowl to burden not only your great grandchildren, but ten generations of your spawn and still they wouldn't be done! But no!" He began unbuckling his pants and Shaun's heart rate went up three speeds. He pressed him closer to the wall and began lathering his left hand in lube (where the blazes had he gotten that from!) and abruptly pulled what was left of his clothes down (well, up, but, cut him some slack!)

"You cuss me out, Lucy cusses me out, my supposed best friend still cusses me out after a decision I made _ages_ ago, and I have had enough torment! You will be quiet! You will be pliant! And you will like it you ungrateful, motherfucker!"

The first finger made him yelp because he was not expecting it and because bloody hell it was _weird._ He wanted to voice a complaint but the parkourist made this growl from the back of his throat and he snapped his mouth shut. A second finger followed and this time he did whine a complain which was shut up with a searing kiss. The third had him gripping the clothed shirt and squeezing his eyes shut, because ow. He was not going to admit that he was hard as fuck. The fingers moved slowly, even with the angry look which slowly dissipated to concentration and then, sudden surprise.

"You..?"

Shaun glared. "I what?"

"You're a _virgin?"_

"Oh ha ha! Real funny, let's laugh at the twenty-six year old virgin. Either move the bloody fingers, do something or let me take over, pliancy be damned, just, just bloody _move."_

No, he was not begging, sod off.

Whatever fight had been in Desmond visibly left, replaced with concern and a bit of... something he couldn't place. Some of the anger filtered back in and he kissed him again, the fingers moving finally in scissoring motions, slowly in, slowly out, all the way until he felt knuckles on his arse. He moaned, back arching and he thought at the top of his head that Becca could come any moment and see them fucking on the wall. You know what? Sure, whatever, have her watch. He'd have something more to goad at with her.

"It's going to hurt." Desmond warned him, one brow raised.

"Oh, _really?_ It's going to hurt! I wouldn't have guessed you limey piece of-!"

You know, in retrospect, it was better being shut up with a kiss than with an arse full of dick. He clenched his teeth and practically hugged the very livng breath of the limey bastard because it hurt! It hurt and it burned and oh my _god._ He _liked it!_ Not only had he been a closet case, no he was a masochistic closet case! No, no, no! Not true, not real! The past sentence is non-existing! He was not whining! He was not moaning and trying his absolute best to just soak in the feeling of fullness.

"F-Fuck, you're tight as hell."

They were both panting and sweaty by now. He was going to need a bath after this. He wasn't sure why he gave a tentative nod after he felt some of the burn go away and then he felt it sliding out, then back in, slowly. By god, this was torture wasn't it? It wasn't just the pace. It was the look on Desmond's face, all concentration and flushed cheeks, teeth set and rigid as he kept the slow pace. It was his arms, the muscles under his skin tight while he held him. It was the fact that they were _fucking against the wall_ and it was wonderful. It was the light burn, turning into something else with each thrust. It was the thrusts themselves, the mere motion making Shaun moan and he wondered if this was the best part. And then when he thought it couldn't get better, it was that little moment when he changed his angle and _oh my bloody god._

_He was in bloody heaven_.

He didn't give two shites about anything except that Desmond please not stop. He was saying so too, brain and voice chords no longer connected and he takes it all back. He takes back the thing about seeing white, about being unable to think, he takes it all, everything back. It becomes tumbled, a mess and it's just Desmond, him and no one else and his cock, he will _worship _it and its owner so long as the fucking didn't stop. The sudden tightness in his stomach, the burning heat, Desmond kissing him harshly. It all added nicely and he came harder than the first time they'd had sex because he just hadn't known.

He feels the last thrusts and then they're both panting, hips bucking still with tiny aftershocks. He feels high off his bloody mind, so much so, it's ridiculous. He felt rather happy, not to mention sated when a thought struck him rather violently and he punched Desmond again.

The git hadn't worn a condom. He was a sneaky little bastard.

"Ow! What the fuck, Shaun!"

"Next time, how about giving me a warning that you're going to release all your pent up frustration on me so I can buy some condoms? Or, I don't know, give me at the very least some smoke signals. I'm guessing you can at least do that? Put me down already."

There was this little, evil smile on Desmond's eyes that made him think that maybe that hadn't been his most wonderful ideas. It was later confirmed when he pulled out and dropped him on his arse. Yes, it hurt like a bitch, but the git at least had the consideration to get him up. He punched him again for good measure.

"Then how about next time you want me to fuck you, you actually say something? I don't mind switching, you know."

"You goddamn lunatic, help me up and shut your mouth before I decide your sex privileges are non-existent."

It was astounding what a little shag could do to people. He was going to be sore as hell the next morning and he could already feel trickles on his thigh. God, he needed a bath.

"I'm sorry."

Shaun looked up from where he was picking his clothes up and raised a brow.

"Be a little more specific, love, you have about a ton of things to be sorry for and I'm not going to be content with only a general apology."

It was worth scolding Desmond to see him shuffle about (made more ridiculous as he tucked himself in his trousers).

"I'm sorry for not calling you."

Shaun nodded, making his way to his room where it was a little warmer and he could properly take a bath without the-oh my god, had Rebecca heard?

"I'm sorry for yelling at you."

"What else?"

His shuffling for clothes was stopped as the other grabbed his hands and kissed his knuckles, eyes downcast. No, he's definitely not blushing or feeling butterflies in his stomach, that's silly, why would he.

"I'm sorry for fucking you like a whore."

He slapped him. He just _had_ to go and make a rude comment with a bloody straight face didn't he? Of course, the brute was laughing and trying to get him close while he kept trying to punch/slap him away to no avail.

"Wait, wait, and I'm sorry for being a douche."

"Well, at least you actually admit it. It doesn't mean I've completely forgiven you."

The feeling of lips, soft and warm on his own made him frown a bit.

"I love you."

"Oh, _no_, don't you start!"

Another kiss, this time with a smile.

"I love you."

"Stop it, stop it! Why are you so such a bloody sap!"

Another kiss, another smile, another 'I love you' until they were both in the bed and wrestling like teenagers, Shaun yelling about sappy Americans and Desmond yelling his unending love and devotion. This could not get more ridiculous. Oh, no wait, it would in a few seconds. They settled down after a bit, Shaun giving Desmond a dissaproving glare as the tanned male nuzzled his chest.

"You are going to be the death of me."

"I hope not."

The Brit snorted. "I still don't understand why you have a penchant for being so overly dramatic and spitting the 'L' world all over the place."

"Lesbian?"

"Very funny, Scott Pilgrim."

His hands seemed to have a mind of their own because one was idly tracing patterns across Desmond's back and the other was thumbing the scar on his lips.

"I love you."

He bit his lip. It always felt... strange to be told such a thing. You go on most of your life believing you'll never find your better half and suddenly he's right there spewing sugar and rainbows at you.

"Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"But I do."

He snorted and placed a kiss on the tanned man's forehead. "Stupid American. Now, if you don't mind, I am going to take a bath. I feel sweaty and there's _something_ in my inner thigh that I want ot get rid of."

* * *

The beer in his hand was cool and familiar. Was he really going to go back to this? After years of rehab and cleanig himself and he was going to relapse because of a simple amulet? Hell yes, he would. Jesus Christ, a fucking _Creed._ How long ago had he seen his last marking, apart from the one artfully hidden on his arm? If there was a Creed here, in Chicago, that meant that there was also an owner of it. And that owner sure as fuck was not human.

The fridge closed and he turned bitting his lip. Running away from the Order was no simple business, and neither was it easy to run from the actual high ranking members. After all, every single Master was a-

"Hi, Danny."

The beer almost fell out of his grasp. He yelped out of fear, but the bottle was easily caught and balanced on the tip of a tennis shoe. Those gold eyes he'd run from the moment he'd become independent enough shone from underneath a white hood. _He_ kicked it up and caught it by the neck, raising a brow.

"Really? After ten years and you're going back to this? You gonna go back to Charlie afterwards?"

He stared at this _monster, _who only smirked and sloshed the liquid, opening it with one hand. He gave it back politely, though it was snatched away quickly, blue eyes glaring with mistrust.

"This isn't a family visit. What do you want?"

"Nothing. Can't I just visit my charge?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, real big coincidence that the moment I find a Creed at a crime scene my Pop decides it's a great moment to visit."

The monster smiled, sitting on the table and leaning on his knees, smiling in what anyone else would describe as a charming manner. He knew better.

"So then you know why I'm here."

"I owe you nothing. How the fuck did you get in here?"

"You granted me access to everywhere you resided remember?"

Daniel Cross internally cursed, staring at the demon, the monster, this, this fucking _asshole_. Motherfucker was feeling smug, he knew.

"What do you want?"

His Pop smiled and waved with one hand. "Get the Creed back."

"_What?"_ He sneered, face showing his disbelief. "You want me to steal a piece of evidence? No, wait, scratch that, an _important_ piece of evidence?"

"That's not the worse I've asked of you."

It was true. But this was something that could potentially fuck up his new life. It had taken him blood, sweat and tears to get himself in the police and he was literally just a few days of probation away from working as an actual detective in the Homicide unit. Was he going to throw all his work to shit just because this thing was telling him to?

"You don't have to. I'm sure I can get it on my own. But if I do..."

The smile on his face started normal enough, but then it grew, and grew, and _that son of a bitch was intimidating him!_

"Fine, fine! Just, fucking stop that! Jesus _Fucking _Christ."

The smile went back to normal and he shivered. Fucking asshole loved doing that. Godamn fuckass. He stood up and pointed to the beer.

"Throw that away, I need you sober. I'll see you in a month."

Just a blink of his eyes and the apparition was gone. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and slid to the floor. By god, he hadn't changed at all. He was still the manipulative bastard he remembered, and he still had that infuriating scar on his lips. He was in some serious shit right now. If he didn't listen to his Pop, he was dead. If he stole the Creed back, he was dead. He was fucked either way. This had to be the proverbial motherfucking cherry of his day.


	11. Dog Days are Over

The wind is cold, even in the summer. There's things to be done, and now that they've found him, they have to work quickly before he finds out. Almost five hundred years it took to find Il Mentore, and she will not let him slip again. This time, she will bring him back, even if that's not what he wants. The Order needs him, now more than ever to guide them.

She needs him.

She soars through the Chicago skies, jumping over buildings like simple stones in her path. She has found him around here, but everytime he's close, his scent and his trail vanish. As expected of the Mentor. Did her companion have better luck in finding his trail again? She only hopes. The woman lands besides him and the man sitting on the ledge smiles, playful and mischevious.

"You know, if I had been told I would be so close to _Il Mentore_, I'd have asked that man if he was perhaps smoking too much _hashish_."

She rolls her eyes. "_Shǎguā._"

"Why so serious, _arkadaşım_? Do you think he will take flight again?"

"That is indeed what I fear. Why does he not wish his rightful seat? Why run away?"

Her companion looks down at the street, where a car, a white Jetta, easily navigates through the traffic. In that car is the one who would take them to the Mentor. He chuckled and shrugged, standing up and moaning in satisfaction as his back popped and cracked.

"He has his reasons. Maybe we're not cool enough for him." He looked at her, brown eyes twinkling with amusement. "Or maybe he's truly retired. Wasn't that what he told you last time?"

"Then why leave clues so we could find him?"

"Maybe he's being _tembel_ about it. Agh, how am I to know? He's always been too serious, though I've heard from some Novices that he's lightened up quite a bit."

She scolds at nothing and sighs. They both jump forwards, running to keep up with the car and watching the driver. She's dialing her cellphone but suddenly throws it at the car seat as if she's changed her mind.

"I'm surprised." She yells over the roar of the wind.

"At what? That he has a _Kaleci_?" He answers back, smiling. "We may be_ iblisler_, but we're still human at the core. We get lonely too!"

"_Nǐ shì yīgè shǎguā_. That is not what I meant. He also has another with him. One like us, if what the Novices say is true."

"Isn't it sad that we have to take what the Novices say to heart? I miss the days when we could walk out in the sun."

"That is also another reason to find him."

He blinks in confusion and gives her a questioning glance, just as the car enters what seems to be an abandoned warehouse.

"In a letter we found, meant for Leonardo da Vinci, he mentioned the probability to a cure. But it was lost."

"The letter?"

"No, the actual recepy for the cure, found by Master Malik A-Sayf in a Codex he wrote long ago. That is what he has been searching for all this time, and perhaps, he has already found it. Can you imagine what would happen if the Templars managed to grab a hold of it? We would be turned back to mortals against our will and the edge we have would be lost."

"So you are not only searching for him for guidance. I think that'll get him angry."

She watches her companion chuckle and shake his head lightly, but she frowns. A blonde woman gets out, grumbling to herself. She hopes at least the _Ménjiàng_ knows of the Codex. The information is not only crucial but dangerous as well and, if necessary, she would take it by force. Just as she always had. She would not fail the Order this time.

* * *

The warehouse is silent. This is a rare thing and Lucy wonders if this is an omen of sorts. Desmond hasn't come back, not since the quarrel and he's been gone for a month now. She feels she should call him and apologize but that's a ridiculous thought. He should have done something. He should have acted and he didn't.

She still feels like shit though.

Sixteen is somewhere in the massive refrigerator last she checked. She should go and check on him again but she's still glaring at her cell phone and wondering what to do. Or not do. Which ever. Being alive should not be this complicated.

A crash brings her out of her revere and she bolts towards the now loud wails, turning higher until the pitch hurts her ears. The speed with which she launches herself from the second floor railing to a bunch of pillows Desmond usually lounges about in (something about being reminded of a Bureau) is amazing and brought on by years of careful training (and pleading that she wanted to also learn how to be a sneaky creature of the night, without the creature of the night part of course. Maybe Batman creature of the night type.)

Sixteen is lying in a mess of armors and swords, old trinkets that as Ezio Auditore, Desmond simply won't leave in one place (or donate to a museum. It's such a fucking hassle when they have to move.) He's wailing and flailing about, as if all of those things will gobble him up if he doesn't make enough noise.

"Sixteen! Six-Sixteen!" She has to yell over the commotion he's making. Her hands reach out and she's able to take a hold of his arm, pulling him back and into her own, hushing and whispering to him.

"There!" He yells, silver eyes wide and frantic. He's pointing to one of the few windows unboarded or unbroken, though completely tinted over. "Th-They watch w-with hun-hungry eyes!"

Lucy sighs and cradles him, because how else can she assure him that there's nobody there except for what he's imagining? "It's okay, Sixteen. I'm sure they won't hurt us. We're safe here. How about I make you a cup of tea? That always calms you down."

He continues to whimper, muttering about the hungry eyes but he actually follows her towards the kitchenette. Well, she wanted excitement, there she had it. Now if only Desmond called her.

* * *

Now, Shaun has never been a hater (no, actually, yes he's been. Towards idiots. And waffles. He hates those ridiculous squashed hot cakes), but to say Desmond has been distraught, and said misery is in turn making him angry, thereby transferring that anger to him via osmosis or some bloody crap is a good reason to glare the ever loving shit out of the poor freshman who misplaced his card and wants a new one, is a very good reason to hate.

It's not that he's ranting or anything but could the bloody git just call Lucy and apologize for whatever the heck he did? It's like commuting with a depressed puppy. Disturbingly cute and wonderfully horrible. Not to mention they haven't had any sex and that makes him quite annoyed, not to mention stressed. He deserves to be pampered now and then!

As the poor brat (they will all be brats in his eyes. Always) runs away from him half-scared to death and half-summed in misery as well, he checks his cellphone again. No messages. He snaps it shut, angry at the goddamn wallpaper. He remembers that. They'd gone out to another park in the middle of the night and he'd been pleasantly surprised to find himself in an amusement park. The picture had been taken on the Ferris wheel with Desmond's phone and afterwards sent to Shaun's so they would match.

How ridiculously corny.

And yet, he was opening his phone to look at them in the picture, quite happy and content. Why couldn't they just stay that way? For a prolonged period of time, preferably.

"Dude, you look like shit."

He glared at Rebecca who only smirked back.

"Hello Becca. Go away."

She did quite the contrary. Her backpack was heaved into the counter which she then leaned on, showing what he supposed would be counted as cleavage. But what with her lack of assets...

"I thought you had that reserved for Desmond only."

His gaze would one of these days kill people with nothing but his sheer force of will and hatred. Lasers sound good enough.

"Yes, Becca, I have insults reserved solely for some people. Like when I call you a child or doubt on your supposed womanly traits."

"Ow, harsh, so he hasn't called you then."

He wants his laser sight. Now. "Kindly keep yourself to your own matters. I'd say relationships but you pass over them faster than a bullet train."

"And he hasn't texted you."

"Would you stop assuming what he has or has not done! It's not your business, now move along, and bother someone else!"

"And you haven't gotten laid either. No wonder you're so cranky."

They both stayed quiet and stared at the young man who'd placed a book for check out on the counter, the guy's face a bit pink, biting his lips. There was no other way to show he was trying his best to hide a smile. If it were possible he'd throw the book straight in his face, see how he liked it.

Now, imagine that feeling of embarrassment, multiplied by the library being full because of Finals. The sniggers and whispers undulated, like doves cooing at each other. One single hiss from him and they quieted down.

"Regardless of whether or not he's either communicated himself with me, texted me or-," He moved his hand around, rotating it to mean he meant the rest of Becca's colorful description. "I would appreciate it if A, you did not speak so loudly so as to inform the whole bloody campus and B, you'd stop poking your bloody nose into my relationship like it's any of your day to day business. Whether or not I am happy, distressed, or cranky did not concern you before so I do not see why it must worry you now."

He turned abruptly to the people who were still muttering to themselves a tiny bit loudly and snapped. "Either go back to your work or get out of the library. This is a serious work place and I will not have any of you disrupt the peace here!"

Whatever was left of the talking completely disappeared.

The geek-tech watched as everyone immediately began texting each other to continue the gossip mill. So then now would definitely not be a good time to tell her what she'd found out about his boyfriend.

"Welp. I was going to invite you to come have a few drinks at the bar where Mr. Handsome works but seeing as you're on your period-"

"Where Desmond works?"

It was amazing how quickly he'd connected 'Mr. Handsome' to Desmond. Well, yes, if you're going to look at him like that then he'll admit it. The bloke's a bloody looker. And he's shy about it. If he were a bloody peacock, he'd probably strut it, no shame at all.

"Wanna go?"

This is a crucial moment, ladies and gentlemen. What if he went and found Desmond flirting around with women? Or worse, with other men? Or, what if it was some strip club? Or what if it was- you know what, never mind, let's just stop imagining all the bad scenarios possible. But what with his close camaraderie with Murphy's Law...

"No, thank you. He only stopped answering my texts about a week ago. He's probably busy."

"Or just not that interested anymore. I mean, he finally did you didn't he?"

The silence after that was not the size of an elephant. Maybe the moon, because even a hunchback whale paled in comparison. The hissed whispers returned full power. This time, he didn't answer with a witty remark, or a sarcastic comment that would be a Nobel prize winner. This time, he bit his lip and looked away. What if... what she said was true? He fists the phone, the picture, the sentiments behind it and the feelings in horrible turmoil. Being a college is hard. It's hard and nobody understands.

"Oh, wow, dude, I didn't mean-"

"Good bye, Rebecca."

She clammed up, stance queasy. She grabbed her pack and left, quite obviously gotten the situation from manageable to fucked up beyond reason. Wonderful, now he'd pushed even her away. To say the rest of the day his mood worsened was a horrible misstatement. At least he didn't have class today. Most of his tests were either done with or exempted, so he had a nice night with just himself.

Peachy.

"Ten minutes people." He called over the intercom, not caring the least if today he actually locked someone in. A book was placed in front of him and he raised a brow.

"Alamut? No one here reads that, unless you're one of the few who like... Good reads..."

He trailed off, brows high as he stared at the person who'd placed the book on the counter.

"I like a good read now and then."

Shaun glared. "What are you doing here?"

Desmond, the goddamn, bloody, idiotic bugger laughed. "What, can't I visit my boyfriend at his work?"

"I thought you weren't going to come." He growled under his breath, placing the book aside and glaring at him again. "Well? Where's your bloody card?"

"Err, actually, I don't have one. Was wondering if you'd borrow me yours. Anyway, why'd you think I wasn't gonna come over?"

Patience. A lot of patience was needed to treat the man in front of him and yet here he was, using his own ID card to take the book out of the library.

"You didn't answer any of my texts."

"You mean the first three I got this week, or the last five you sent me today?"

Oh God, his ears turned pink again. At least the git was whispering, unlike Becca. Possessive, who him? No, no, you must be confusing him with somebody else.

"I-it doesn't matter. Why didn't you answer them?" If he kept hissing like this people were going to confuse him with a snake.

"Well I had some pending things. I wanted to finish everything so we could be together on your vacation."

Oh. Well. Now he felt like a prat. He picked at the book's cover, though gently. He'd have to restore the poor thing when it was returned. Desmond frowned, following his gaze which had gone towards the side. The bastard had a way of knowing what he felt by just looking at his eyes.

"You thought I was ignoring you?"

He grumbled something unintelligible. Let him fight for the info. Please let him fight for it. He kept preparing to close down, announcing that five minutes were left and watching the last people file out.

"Hey."

It's not the tone that makes him stop. It's actually the kicked puppy look. You know what? The cat statement? Add puppy to that. Puppy cat or whatever you want to call it. He began organizing books, the ones returned, the ones ordered and he finally blurted out what seemed like a monologue.

"What Desmond? What do you want me to tell you? That yes, I thought you were ignoring me because you'd-" He stopped, watching the last student leave. "You'd gotten what you wanted? And that maybe I suddenly entertained the thought that you'd just leave me because of it or because you're not-" He cut himself off. He'd never seen his knuckles so white with how he was holding one of the returned books

The limey git just blinked, surprised at the outburst. With the grace of a cat (see, cat puppy) he jumped over the counter and hugged him. This was probably the most awkward hug he'd received. Well, in his opinion, because Miles seemed quite at home with his balloon of a head on Shaun's shoulder.

"Why the hell would I ignore you?"

"First, let go this is embarrassing. Second, I don't know, you tell me. "

He let go, though only a bit, thumbs hooking on the loops of the Brit's jeans. By God he was even tilting his head like a dog. A tiny, brain-damaged dog enamored to its owner.

"Alright, first, letting go is not an option. I'm ready to perform CPR if you faint from embarrassment. Second, I don't know either because I wasn't ignoring you at all. I just thought, Hey, lemme finish all this crap I still got pending to spend some time with Shaun and while I'm at it, give 'im some space so he can be his usual self and get the high scores he's always bragging about."

"Well when you put it like that you make me seem clingy."

He receives a kiss for the comment, sweet and quick on chapped lips. "You said it not me."

"Git."

"Ass."

Even though they're throwing barbs and jabs his mood improves, just as it always does. This is getting so ridiculous. Being this happy can't be normal. They keep chatting, about Shaun's week mostly until the subject changes to the vacation part.

"How do you even go on a trip? What, do you cover yourself up head to toe so you won't get hurt? The mummy look must be a real hit with the ladies"

Desmond's face looks like he's constipated. He says so and receives a light punch to his shoulder.

"Asshole. You know, there's a lot you can do at night. There's wild parties, a lot of booze-"

"Lot of good it does you with your alcohol tolerance." He interjected, chuckling as the other maturely stuck his tongue out. The night was cool, but around here that was expected, even in summer. With the library being closed by Shaun's co-worker they headed out, route unimportant.

"Chicks."

"Hey!"

"The possibility of doing you."

"Oh, very charming there, love. Real smooth."

"There's a lot of things people do at night, Shaun. Like walk around, watch the scenery. Be with someone."

He wasn't aware of when they began holding hands but this had to be the cusped of sappy corniness. Which was worse? Being aware or enjoying it?

* * *

Right here, right now, your life ends. Slips away through each passing second like sand between your fingertips. Each breath a suicide, oxygen corroding you, aging you.

But you're too busy to notice. To care.

Everything goes too fast, too quick and by the time you want to actually stop and enjoy time, well, it's too late.

Daniel Cross wishes his life ended just a little quicker, just a little sooner but he knows that's both impossible and improbable. Fucking tough luck. If he died right now, he wouldn't have to pay his bills, wouldn't have to listen to Hannah, and he certainly wouldn't be in the evidence room about to swap an important piece of evidence with a fake and stupid amulet he bought on the street.

Fuck his life, fuck his Pop, fuck his luck, fuck his karma. Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck. There was no such thing as God, but if there was or if there were deities up there, they were probably laughing their ass off. The Creed was right there, in a little evidence bag marked with details of the crime scene. And here was he, with gloved hands so he wouldn't leave a mark behind and incriminate himself. Hell, he'd even signed in with a different name.

Plus, he wasn't the only one that snuck into the evidence room. Other cops did it for the crack or the MJ. He was just gonna change it and leave. Yeah, right, he was just trying to excuse himself and he knew that was impossible. His guilt was the size of the moon, up until now. It probably grew a few extra inches.

The deed done, he stuffed the Creed in his pocket and hurried out, thinking that maybe no one would see him when he crashed into none other than Hannah. She yelped as the papers she carried fell to the floor and he ran away.

Way to make yourself look inconspicuous, Cross, really fucking awesome.

He clocked out, quickly and efficiently and left the building, not even hearing the goodbyes sent his way. His hand immediately reached for his cellphone and he stopped. No, no, payphone, use a payphone, no one can trace those.

He jogs up to a booth and places some quarters in, leg tapping impatiently until the other end picks up.

"The only reason you're calling is because you have the Creed, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. What do I do with it?"

"You keep it"

He flinched, actually physically flinched and rubbed his eyes. "_What!_ No, no, I know what it means. It means I go back to being a Keeper and fuck that. I left that behind! I'm not part of the Brotherhood anymore, Pop. This was the last thing I did for you."

"Oh come now, Danny, don't you think I know that? You just keep it with you!" The voice replied cheerfully. "Trust me, it's for your safety. Thinks have been… strange around here." Daniel groaned, passing a hand though his face and pulling at his goatee. " I know you don't want this life, but I'm afraid you'll never truly leave it. Not because I won't let you, but because there are others who need you. Do you know someone called Lucy Stillman?"

Stillman? He blinked. Wasn't that the pathologist they'd interviewed? The friend of Marino? "What about her?"

"I need you to keep a close eye on her. The Order did not know of her existence, but it seems she has a connection with a rather important person. _Il Mentore_ to be precise."

He fumbled with the phone and almost yelled into the speaker, though he hissed to keep his voice down. "Il Mentore! You told me that was a fairy tale! A legend!"

"Maybe I did so you wouldn't become suspicious that I was him."

The blonde snorted. "Oh come off it. Sure as fuck that _you_ aren't him." But what if he was? He'd never seen his Pop with any others like him. It was always just the two of them. Jesus, Mary and Joseph what if he really was _Il Mentore?_

"Danny, I can hear you think."

"Shut up." He snapped, biting his nail. Great, old habit coming back. "Alright, _fine_, I'll keep the fucking Creed and watch over the lady. I know who she is."

"Good! It's a relief to know I can still trust in you!"

The phone abruptly clicked and the call was done. He placed it back with a little too much force and snarled to himself, heading towards his beat up truck. What the fuck had he just agreed to?

* * *

"Shaun, you asleep?"

"No, I'm looking at the insides of my lids to find the questions of the universe. Queen knows the inside of my skull holds all the answers."

They're lying in bed after a great fuck, nice and clean and just together. Desmond has been oddly quiet and made a rather strange call, arguing with someone on the phone. Probably Lucy. What does he care? He's had fantastically great sex, they had a fantastic shower afterwards and now he's here, spooned against Desmond's chest to make it a fantastic end of a day. He does not want to talk. He wants to sleep.

"Could I stay here tonight?"

"That bad it went with Lucy?" A melodramatic sigh, but what gives. "Yes, I suppose you could, but if you want to really know, you _may_ stay the-," He stopped. For the day, for the night? "Are you going to need me to block the windows?"

"I'll do it. Thanks."

"I better not come back and find my windows boarded up with tape. People already think I'm out of my mind."

He receives a chuckle in response. They stay silent for some time, Shaun finally starting to drift off.

"Shaun?"

He mumbles a reply. Yes, he's listening. No, he's not paying attention.

"If I was different, would you still love me?"

He mumbles again, too tired to really be listening, too exhausted to understand.

"If I was a monster, would you still love me?

But by then he's already asleep.

* * *

_I'm sorry this one took so long. This pretty much concludes the happy part of the fic, and looking by the votes, it's going to go down hill from here. I've been having some personal problems, mainly getting to be part of the thousands that become homeless, but all things considered, I'm fine, I'm happy and I'm safe. You don't have to review, but I would greatly appreciate it. See you next chapter!_


	12. Insignia

_So another chapter. Things start to get a little more... plottier (that is not a word). With finals done, and the heaps of time on me, I think I'll be able to upload twice a month, though I'm not entirely sure. It's better to have things well thought out and give you quality instead of quantity, right? As well always, read and eview, and any mistakes you see, please do tell me!_

* * *

He's tired when he gets to his apartment, his internal clock buggered to hell and back. Yes it was wonderful going to Italy for summer vacation (quite out of the blue really), but now his body's demanding to know why the blood hell he's awake.

Not that he's complaining, quite the contrary.

He hasn't felt this calm in, and he's being honest here, _years_. Of course, he hasn't been this _pampered_ either, and he feels like he's being spoiled rotten, which does not help at all his financial guilt (Desmond keeps offering to alleviate his bills and loans, except it would feel like he's being paid every time they sleep together like some sort of whore. Becca keeps hitting him every time he explains why he's turned the offer down.)

He looks fondly through the pictures they've taken together, a copy saved in his memory card and Desmond's as well, though him being the romantic fool he is, he wanted them printed out and in his hands.

His mind's still reeling from all the places they visited; Rome, to begin with, then Venice, then Firenze and from there, Monterrigioni. That is where he met Uncle Mario. He gives an involuntary snort when he remembers the man's 'unique' way of presenting himself. He may not play video games as much as Becca, but hearing a grown man say those words, he'd had to pretend he was choking on the wine he'd been drinking so his laughter wouldn't filter through.

But to think, the man he's dating owned a Villa in Italy that he didn't want to live in, filled to the brim with invaluable objects, all kept in perfect, hermetic state, because according to him, _it's boring_.

And then, just in case he was not amazed enough, by the people he knew, and thus the places Desmond could sneak him into (like the Sistine Chapel where he prayed called out a certain divinity's name, in a manner of speech. He might burn in hell for that one, but he's never been too religious to begin with), he heard him talk _Italian_. Not just butchered Italian, but the _real language_, accent changing seamlessly from the horrid American English to the more singed Italian, and then to _French_ (he'd asked him how many languages he knew and then had almost fainted when he'd begun to count with both hands, then sheepishly admitted he didn't quite remember.)

So, forgive him for arriving and pretty much dumping things everywhere and promptly slumping on his bed. He's quite sure he's hit jackpot (and wouldn't you be as sure as he is? Let's see _you_ find a rich, handsome, polyglot with the same affinity to history as yourself) and the happiness in him has him hugging his pillow like a teenage girl (thank goodness Becca isn't here to witness that.)

Don't tell him you're not jealous, he won't believe you.

But all good things must come to an end, and now he was back here, grabbing for his laptop and applying for his one more semester. Sure he doesn't actually have to do this one, but he wants to dawdle just a bit. After all, Desmond might be moving this year, and (may he be stricken where he stands if anyone actually hears him say it) he'd love to go with him.

His last electives are chosen, reapplying for his job at the library is done (of course they'll rehire him, he's their best librarian), and he stops, fingers just bare inches from the keys at the email asking for an interview in the local museum. Not as some intern, but for actual research on something having to do with the conspiracies revolving around the Templars, the Illuminati.

This makes him even more excited than he already was.

They're quite impressed on his research paper on the Assassin Order and their feud with the Templars and would like to meet him for a prospective job. He answers back, careful not to seem too interested in the offer but enough that they know he would be pleased to work on the subject.

He's always been attracted to conspiracy theories, but don't let anyone know that. It's more of a guilty pleasure than anything, if he's honest with himself. He hits send, more than pleased and jumps as the door is suddenly knocked on.

That's… odd.

The only people who come in are Desmond and Becca, but both just let themselves in, with Desmond usually calling out to let him know he's there. Carefully, he places the laptop on his bed and walks towards the small living room, peeking through the peephole.

There's nobody there.

Now, see, if Hollywood with its corny, horror, B-Rated movies (not that he watches them) has taught him anything, it's that the moment he opens the door, some psycho will either cut him up or choke him. Curse his innate human curiosity. Before he opens the door, he grabs a kitchen knife and swings the door open, looking both ways.

Nothing but a lone box in the hallway meets him. For a moment he thinks it might have been some prank and this is something akin to the popular prank of placing fecal matter of dubious origins in a burning paper bag. And he wouldn't place it below Becca to do it, except his whole name is atop the box in a little blank card. He leans down, squinting at it even with his glasses on and, more than a little suspiciously, he grabs it. Inside, something tinkers.

He closes the door, opening the box with the kitchen knife, even if his more paranoid streak is screaming things like _anthrax, bomb, nerve gas, _and_ gun._ But the box, easily fitting his spread hands, has nothing but bright red paper inside. He takes some out, then stares at what it's inside. His hand fishes the silver chain and he simply can't stop staring at what hangs from it.

It's the insignia; the 'A' symbol; the mark of the Assassins; their Creed. He runs to his room, reaching under his bed at the box he keeps there, opens it to take out the book and compares the insignia in both. They're exactly the same. Both in red, both having the same width in one line, the same thickness in the other, except the Creed he's holding has something etched into it. It's so small, almost unseen, but the words stand out, and it's the exact thing that says in the first page of his book, except in perfect English instead of ancient Arabic.

_Nothing is true. Everything is permitted._

His shoulders slump and he feels flabbergasted. What are the odds, the possibilities? How did this arrive here? Did Desmond send it? He goes back to the living room for the box and returns to his room. After he's gotten rid of all the red paper, he finds two little notes. One is filled with dates, reaching back to 1192 A.C. The other has a single sentence that for some reason makes him shiver.

_It is not what he seems._

It feels like a warning, even if the grammar is atrocious. The Creed, the dates, the note, they all seem like a warning of sorts, like somebody's trying to tell him to open his eyes, but in relation to what?

Now he feels curious, not to mention eager to find out what all those dates seem to be for. And again the question, did Desmond send this? It was probably him, after all the only people who know his guilty pleasure are Beccs (she'd given him the bloody Da Vinci Code. He'd thrown it back at her yelling that it was a crime against the Artist himself) and Desmond (who was more of the type to give him something obscure and let him find out things on his own. In this manner he both loves and hates the man for knowing him so well), so it makes more sense that Desmond sent it to him.

He sends him a text, thanking him for the gift, but tells him it won't make up for the mental trauma his bloody Uncle gave him. Seriously, the man was too touchy, too loud, and too goddamn obnoxious. He never thought it conceivable, more so in such an older man, but it appears it_ is_ indeed possible to be more aggravating than Desmond. It must run in the family.

A text answers back, bids him goodnight with a ridiculous smiley and heart which he rolls his eyes at. He plops on the bed again, tired and ready to sleep. In his hands, the Creed feels cold, even with him holding it. He smiles and places it around his neck, thumbing the insignia. He'll start his little search tomorrow. For now, he just wants to sleep.

* * *

The Creed on his neck feels so fucking heavy, like a responsibility forced on it. He finds it weird that his Pop only wanted him to keep it. What for? In case he meets another Assassin? In case he, god fucking forbid, he meets a Master?

Or worse, what if he got questioned by one of the six Grand Masters?

His whole body gives an involuntary shiver. And these rumors his Pop gave him about the Mentor, he wonders, are they true? Of course he's heard the stories, what Assassin brat hasn't? The Mentor was the First, the oldest and seventh of the Grand Masters. He hailed from the original cradle of the Assassins, Masyaf, and has appeared each time the order has needed guidance.

In the Crusades, in the Renaissance, hell, some say he fought with the founding fathers in the time of Independence. There are other rumors that say he started the Great Fire in London. Another rumor says that he was Jack the Ripper, commissioned by the Queen herself to keep not only a secret of hers, but of the Order as well. And yet another rumor says he fought in both World Wars.

But in each one, the ending goes the same. Once he sees that things are going kinda of alright, that the world isn't about to collapse in on itself, he disappears for an indefinite period of time. Except last time he disappeared, he said it was for good.

No one's seen him, and Daniel has to wonder if his Pop was pulling his leg by telling him those things. But what if it were true? What if all this time he's been raised by the Mentor himself? His head clatters the keyboard in front of him and Hanna giggles, looking from her desk.

"You keep doing that and you'll be out of letters before noon comes in." She jokes, turning to her paperwork when the chief comes in.

"You alright Cross?" His Sargent chuckles at the keyboard notes marked on his forehead. "You look more nervous than usual."

"M'feeling real peachy Sarge, real peachy." The way he's rubbing his face, you'd think he wanted to wipe all semblance of what made him Daniel Cross. "Just, some family problems stressing me." He lies, smooth and simple.

The Sargent shrugs and leaves for a cup of coffee. He mumbles a curse under his breath, feeling the Creed against his chest again, heavy as an elephant. Of course, it's his luck that no one's found out about the little switch up, but just you wait and see and someone will fucking notice on the worst time ever.

Meanwhile, he's supposed to calm down and find out what he can on this Lucy Stillman without anyone knowing. What with there practically being a Hacker 101 when his Pop's involved, that's actually the easy part of the job.

He _does_ find everything about her. Lucy Stillman, born in some little town in Nebraska, she was the sole survivor of a fire that consumed the house, along with mommy and daddy Stillman. See, this is where it gets kinda skivvy, and he can tell she's been adopted by an Order member.

She completely drops from the surface of the planet after somebody adopts her. Oh, it's legal alright, except the adopter's name is kinda funny. He bites his lower lip and thinks that maybe a Grand Master did it. They're the best minds in the world, but when it comes to changing their fucking names, they fucking suck and go for something weird and archaic.

Whatever, it's not his problem if the idiot decided Connor Stillman was a good name. And then, like he said, she dropped off. No hospital records, no school records, not until she turns eighteen. Then she's back in the world, studying in some big Chicago University (he can't be bothered to even look it up), studying of all things Microbiology with a Minor in Pathology.

A real brainy chick, not to mention she's not too bad on the looks department. Now, he could be a dick and go to her, tell her he has to take her in and ask her about Mss. Marino, then demand to know who she's playing Keeper to, but in context it doesn't. Keepers are notorious, two-faced liars. They got to be, otherwise their charge would be dead centuries ago at the hands of a Templar.

It makes sense if you think about it. Being a pathologist, she's gonna have to work at the morgues. This is by far the best place to keep a Grand Master in. Inconspicuous, stealthy, and the right temperature for the 'sleeping' monster, not to mention you get privacy with the black bags and individual cabinets.

He makes a face, remembering how he had to Keep his pop and shudders, yet again. Yeah, not his best childhood or teenage memories, not that he'll tell his Pop. But this has him wonder, which if the six is she Keeping? She's not doing such a good job, letting him/her go out making a mess.

They finally managed to find out who Scrappy was. Ethan Muller, small time crook, coming in and out of jail, not to mention rapist if by what he'd seen of Marino went right. This made the fiftieth death in these two years in somewhat the same way.

It's a common Grand Master tactic to eat crooks. Kinda like making a public service and getting their chow down at the same time.

But see, that's where it doesn't add up. This is what has him nervous. According to forensics, there were Marino's footprints, Muller's footprints, and then two unspecified prints that had caught the specialist's attention because whoever these two were, they'd been _barefooted_.

Grand Masters don't travel in packs, and to his knowledge, the only time they do is when they're in a conference. At the most, they go with two, maybe three Masters and about a dozen Novices to scout the area.

So it doesn't make sense to watch these two pretty much hunting together. But if what his Pop said was true, that the Mentor was here, that _he_ was the Mentor, could it be…

The he's actually found Subject Sixteen?

The color drains from his face. Along with the Mentor's rumors of greatness, there's one rumor in particular that he remembers the older people used to frighten children with.

Templars had been catching people who were suspected to be Keepers. They all were all fifteen of them. They were tortured physically and psychologically to spill the beans on the whereabouts of the Grand Masters, the location of the main Bureaus, any info on the Order. Of course, they were pretty much fucked to begin with, because every single Keeper was instructed to commit suicide if ever caught or if they personally felt they were close to spilling the beans.

Now, Subject Sixteen was special in that he was supposed to pose as another poor bloke caught and learn the inner workings of the Templar HQ. They were able to receive reports from him for the first few months and suddenly, they stopped.

The Mentor, finally sick and tired of watching their people getting abducted and more than pissed that one of their own had been allowed to go on such a dangerous mission, went in to become Subject Seventeen. He managed to break himself free and erase most of the records they had, and coincidentally, found Sixteen half-dead.

This is where it stops for the kiddies, more of a warning that the Templars are mean and bad and won't doubt in catching little kids to get information from you.

But for the Keepers, they got told the whole thing. The Mentor found Sixteen bled half to death, writing things on his cell and, in an attempt to save his life, broke the tennet he had made himself and _turned Sixteen himself._

This is where it gets really horrifying. The Mentor had _never_ turned anyone in his entire life, so it wasn't that much a surprise when you get told he fucked up some way. Most people get seriously creeped out at being told one of the seven actually managed to fuck up a turning. It went so bad that Sixteen went _insane_ and, if you believe the story, became a monster, like the Grand Masters, but far worse, neither here or there. They say he could see The Truth, whatever that was and the other Grand Masters became terrified of him.

Sometimes, some of the people say that the process had the Mentor also lose his mind, or that maybe his failure had him lose what hope he still held. Other times, they say he was so disgusted by what the Templars had been doing, so tired of the senseless fighting, that he left the Order forever. But they all agree on one thing.

He took Subject Sixteen with him.

And now here was the possibility of having found them both. His fucking year just keeps getting better and better.

"You ok, Danny? You look a little pale."

"M'fine." He croaks, because the truth is, this is worse than finding out your pop might be the Mentor. Because if the stories are true, then he'd been living real close to an unbalanced, all-powerful monster, and worse, this monster was living right here, _right now_ in Chicago.

He excuses himself to the bathroom and can't help it when he throws up in the toilet. Grand Masters have a 'refined' way of eating, if you wanna call it that. The reason why they were so nervous of him? No one's quite sure, but one rumor says it's because he loved to 'play' with his 'food' by ripping it to shreds and eating it while it was still conscious. He hopes Muller died quickly, because painlessly is one thing he's sure didn't happen.

The Creed on his neck feels like a weight ready to pull him down; ready to drown him.

* * *

Lucy sighed, the coffee in her cup making steam which gently teased her with promises of a proper awakening. On her neck, an insignia, a gift given to her long ago, felt heavy and it make her feel somewhat depressed. To be honest, she was supposed to be asleep, not sitting here being frustrated and all blue.

Sixteen was happily scribbling things on the walls in languages that made her head hurt from the bombardment of information that she already had going on.

Her current frustration lay in a simple petri dish. Every time she felt she was getting closer to the cure she'd been working so hard on, the sun would rear itself and happily blow away her progress. She still hadn't been able to find out exactly _what_ caused the sudden combustion. She knew it was something changed in their DNA, she'd seen it alright, but she hadn't been able to actually _change it_ so they wouldn't just burst into flames and ashes when the sun hit them.

Summer vacation had come and gone without any signs from Desmond. She wondered if maybe she'd gone too far this time, but then again, he was prone to play tricks on her, then come back with his stupid grin, a wave and a

"Hey."

The coffee was almost dropped as she gave a rather embarrassing squeak. It was caught by nimble fingers and Desmond smiled at her, amused.

"Do you _always_ have to do it so close to my ear!" She snapped, the sadness she'd had for him not coming replaced with irritation.

He moved the cup between his hands, smile still on his face. "If I didn't I wouldn't get to watch you jump six feet in the air. I'm surprised I can still catch you unaware after so many years."

She threw a scalpel at him and he dodged, laughing at her attempt. Had he been human, it would've actually hit him on the forehead.

"Where's Sixteen?"

"Over there scribbling something on the walls again, don't worry." She assured him when the smile fell a bit. "He's using a marker this time."

Last time it had been his blood. She still remembers coming home, excited that she'd been accepted to the university she'd applied to, only to stop dead on her tracks. The papers and her bag had fallen to the floor and before she could scream, Desmond had covered her eyes and mouth, whispering to her, assuring her, and, if she strained herself a bit more, she thinks she can remember him apologizing to someone in another language.

She was handed back her coffee and a large paper bag that seemed to be full of quite a lot.

"Mario says hi."

Her eyes widened. "You went to _Italy?_ When!"

She placed the cup on the table and began to rummage through the bag like a kid in Christmas. There was wine, food, clothes and other assorted trinkets from his trip, and she shook her head at the sheer amount of it.

'Uncle' Mario was another of Desmond's kind, though when and where they had met or why he'd been turned neither would tell. He would, however, tell stories of his days in Monterrigioni, defending it from those idiots in Firenze who simply couldn't make up their mind if they were friends of enemies.

"This summer, actually. I went with Shaun."

She stopped, about to grab hold of what seemed like a portrait and raised a brow at him. "You took him to see Mario. Loud, boisterous, screaming he's not human, Mario?"

"Did you just off-handedly call him stupid? He wouldn't appreciate that." He smiled cheekily as she placed a hand on her hip.

He made a face no eight-century years old should make because it'd fit a little eight year old better. "Well, yeah, I mean, I wanted to spend some time with him and Italy's not the quietest city at night; or Venice."

The blonde threw her hands at the sky in an obvious 'I quit' stance, rolling her eyes as she took the portrait out. "You always kept telling me not to become too attached to people and here you are telling me how you took your lover slash boyfriend to _Italy_ like some sort of honeymoon_._ I trust you took him to all your old places."

He smiled fondly. "He was practically creaming himself when we went to the Sistine Chapel. Well, actually…" The smile on his face turned devious and she blushed, punching his arm.

"What are you, a teenager?" She unwrapped the portrait and stared, eyes wide. "Is… this you?"

"Centuries ago." He seemed almost sheepish. "Sometimes I wonder if I should let myself grow back my hair but as I've been there and done that…" He shrugged, making a face clearly indicating he was not up for it.

The portrait showed him and an entire family. He was wearing what was common of that time, though it seemed to be he'd been affluent back then. The family, a woman, her husband and three children, a boy, a teenage girl, and a young man seeming a bit 'older' than her father, smiled with confidence and pride.

"This was painted by da Vinci himself." Desmond told her in a matter of fact tone, but it didn't escape her notice that he wasn't looking at the painting. "He kept insisting and it got awkward when he had to tell him he could only paint the whole family together at night."

He chuckled, looking at his missing finger, his hand softly massaging the missed spot there. "I felt so strange, being part of something again, being able to tell my secret without fear of rejection or disgust. They were pretty ok with it, not to mention they were part of-" He cut himself and shook his head. "I took care of them, always did, because you don't just forget kindness of that magnitude."

He finally looked at it, frown on his face. She could feel this sort of homesickness coming from him, wistful and forlorn, looking at these people and places long gone that he'd over lived. He pointed to the man and smiled.

"Giovanni Auditore. A lot of men come and go, but this one like a few others I knew, shines out. He was a good man. Loving; caring; a real father, I remember." He chuckled, shaking his head. He pointed at the woman next. "Maria Auditore was bold and not afraid of me, which I found refreshing. Not because I wasn't dangerous, but because she was completely sure that I wouldn't harm her or her family.

"Federico, Claudia, and Petruccio. The youngest was always sickly, and for some reason, he needed these feathers and I'd go and get them for him." He smiled, shaking his head fondly. "Maria, I always had to go and scare the shit out of some guy because they were always cheating on her, but she was a real spitfire on her own. Federico…" He suddenly panned out.

Lucy looked at him. He seemed so old suddenly and shook his head with the saddest smile. "I don't think I've had a friend like that."

"What happened to them?" She asked before she could stop herself. He kept looking at the portrait and barely touching it, he pointed all three men.

"They were hanged a month after the portrait was done."

Her eyes widened. She bit her lip and was about to say she was sorry, but he was already wrapping the portrait back, shaking his head. "I remember feeling so _furious_ and so powerless at the same time. I scared Claudia, but instead of running away from me, she commended herself and her mother to me, told me she trusted me regardless. I felt so guilty."

There was disgust now in his voice. "I'd turned complacent, thinking that maybe I'd found my peace and they paid with their lives for my idiocy. I knew there was something odd about that Borgia. He smelled wrong, but with Giovanni's reassurance, I didn't pry any further."

He gave her the painting and smiled at her, but it looked fake. "But hey, the past's in the past right?"

She set it down and hugged him, something that made him freeze like an animal ready to spring. This is why she wanted to find the cure, give him back the thing that'd been stolen from him. Is it so strange to believe that immortals wish for death?

"It's alright." She told him, because the way he spoke, he was blaming himself, was wishing he'd died like they had, and it gripped at her heart thinking of all the people he'd met and lost. "It's ok."

He hugged her back with a sort of desperation and he gave a humorless chuckle. "Aren't I the one supposed to comfort you?"

"You're not a machine, dad." She reminded him, because at times, he'd forget. "I know you're afraid. Just, stop thinking about when the people you know now will die, ok? It's not healthy."

"…so you caught that, huh?"

"You're an open book when you tell me about your past." She answered, separating from the hug but not letting go. "I promise I'll hurry. And I, I'm sorry about getting mad at you over Leila. You were right, she isn't your concern."

He chuckled and shook his head, ruffling her hair like she was ten again. "Nah, it's my fault. I should've done something you know? Gotten her to a hospital at least, I just, I don't know. I wasn't all that there. You had every right to get pissed at me. And I'm sorry for yelling at you, shouldn't have done that, no matter how angry I got."

She smiled, happy that she'd managed to both comfort him and get the Leila incident over, even if her absence still hurt. "At least you killed the bastard that did that to her."

They let go, their scuffle not forgotten but forgiven, at the least.

"So how'd Shaun react to Mario?"

He groaned, but smiled nonetheless, and it seemed to her he was trying his damndest not to laugh. "Shocked. Horrified? I'm not entirely sure. The undignified squawks he was giving made it hard to tell."

"He _squawked?_" She asked, now laughing herself.

"I'm telling you, it was hard to tell! He sounded like he was cussing him off and begging him not to kill him in the same sentence."

They're both laughing now, her because she can imagine Shaun being in a bear hug, legs kicking, and face red with indignation and Desmond because he saw it in the flesh. He seems to frown, just a bit, and they hear rather than see Sixteen come to them. He's on the rafters though, looking up, and she stops a bit, watching the surveillance cameras on her laptop. There's nothing.

"How about you finish checking what I brought you? Hey!" He whistles at Sixteen, loud and shrill and the other is immediately besides them, eyes wide and silver. "Bought stuff for you too."

"F-F-For me?" He seems confused and Lucy smiles as he shuffles towards her, peaking over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"Just… gonna check something out."

She blinks and he's gone.

* * *

On the roof, Desmond ran quick and silent, the intruder's smell thick in the surrounding area and he mentally kicked himself. This is what happened when he didn't come back for such a long time.

He caught the scent again and stopped at the smell. He approached, carefully, the figure that leaned quite calmly on a part of another building, all smiles and twinkling eyes that shone a bright aquamarine, his own stance relaxing because he knew this man from long ago.

"Now, now, that aggressive stance, is that any way to meet me, _arkadeshim_?"

Desmond's smile was sudden and he walked towards the fool who walked towards him. They hugged, like long lost brothers and laughed, looking over at each other, finding new features, recognizing old ones.

"So the rumors are true, _Il Mentore_ is in Chicago. I'd say some smart-ass comment about small world but we both know better don't we?"

"I haven't been called that since forever, _Yusuf._ You still have that ridiculous beard, I see."

Yusuf Tazim, a man born to Istanbul at the time of the Ottoman Empire, a man who should be dead, touched his beard with a rueful smile, eyes twinkling like they always did, though now a normal deep brown.

"It is not _ridiculous_." He walked around Desmond, looking him over and gave a snort. "What about you? What happened to the beard, the hair? Tired of looking like the old man you are?"

Desmond crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. "Said the kettle to the pot."

"Do have in mind that, regardless of my age, I am still younger than you. You, on the other hand, are _ancient._ I would not be surprised if you lived in a museum or something of the sort. But yes, the name Yusuf has long since not been used, unless I'm in some Order conference." He waved his hand, like swatting a fly. "Agh, those conferences, always so boring! Always talking about 'our duty to the humans' and blah, blah, blah."

Desmond couldn't help the amusement or the chuckle and shook his head. "You haven't changed."

"But you seem to have, Ezio. Or do you use another name yet again?"

"Desmond Miles now."

Yusuf made a face, like something nasty was under his nose. "A boring American name. Why not choose something better, more exotic, with more flourish!"

"Like what?" He's still amused, because Yusuf is still as childish as always, even for a grown man (?), and for a minute, even with their surroundings being metal, it feels like they're in 1603 instead of 2012.

"Amir is a good name, or how about Tayyib. Excellent names, not boring at all. Though it is refreshing to see you've finally stopped trying to be witty by calling yourself variations of 'eagle'. Ah, but enough of that, I didn't come to lecture you on why your name is so boring."

This made Desmond frown. "I thought so. What has happened? I saw Mario a few days ago, as boisterous and lively as ever, but he simply warned me to be weary and to be ready to change cities at any given time."

"And he was right. Shao Yun has found you."

The silence between them hung heavy. Desmond cussed, hands passing through his short cropped hair and he began to pace, a beast caged and furious. His tone of voice changed, accent suddenly heavy, a resurfaced memory from long ago.

"Since when?"

"Four months ago. She knows of this place and of your Keeper. Thankfully, I was with her and I have managed to convince her not to approach the young lady or the other _iblis_ in your care." He informed him, his playful nature gone as he informed the former Mentor of what had occurred. "She does not know, however, of your lover."

The pacing stopped and Desmond glared, eyes bright gold, like coins in the depths of the ocean, sparkling and angry.

"But you do." There was a coldness to his tone that made Yusuf hold his hands in defense, upwards and weaponless.

"My apologies, but I had to make sure she did not find him. Though I must compliment you, you barely leave a trace, if any. I have, regardless, changed such minor traces to confuse her. She is, however, dead set on finding you."

But Desmond was already thinking of Shaun, of his rather blunt nature and of the troubles he could get himself into if Shao ever found him and began to demand answers he did not know the answers to. She was well known to get answers through not only her own drive but her precise methods.

"Altair." He stopped, jolted a bit from his thoughts and thought it strange to be called by a name he'd dropped so long ago. Remembering the past only harmed the present.

Yusuf looked at him, straight in the eye, blue aquamarine eyes boring into his without a flinch.

"She insists that you have a cure for our condition; a way to return our humanity. She says you have hidden something from the Order since your days in Masyaf." They stayed quiet, judging each other. "Is this true?"

He could tell him, he knew. He trusted Yusuf with even his life. But this, this was something that, in a way, did not belong to him. No, this information belonged to a man without an arm, and this knowledge had been kept from him by that man.

He had yet to find the fucking Codex.

"Yes." He watched Yusuf's eyes widen, the shine in them as bright as the moon. "And no."

The other man scoffed and shook his head. "You speak in riddles. Yes or no, surely it cannot be both?"

"The Master who preceded me in Masyaf found and placed the knowledge in a Codex I had already written." Desmond explained, eyes looking over the landscape, the electric lights, the concrete and steel.

"He hid it inside its pages, between my own words, to keep the knowledge safe and away from Templars who would wish to end me. But before he could give it to me, before I could have the actual choice whether to rest or keep going." His hands clutched at an invisible book and then panned out, palms spread open and empty. "His son kept the book afterwards, and then his son, always hiding it. The last of that line I found in Masyaf again, but already, she told me she'd given it away yet again."

And it had been extremely infuriating. Each time he'd held some of the pages, maybe, perhaps, some of the cure, it was gone. Darim al-Sayf, later Malik al-Sayf in honor of his father, had not taken as nicely the knowledge that Altair ibn-La' Ahad, with all the power he had as an _alukah_ had not been able to save his father.

Neither had he.

"Then this book, it truly holds a way to makes us become human?" Yusuf seemed both shocked and, was that hopeful?

"Being completely honest, my friend, I am not sure myself. It has been centuries since I last saw the Codex."

The other cursed in his native tongue, biting his lip, thinking. "If Shao Yun finds about this information she will rip through anything to obtain it. She believes it can be used as a weapon against us."

"I am aware of that aspect." Desmond answered walking towards his him. "That is why you will tell her of the Codex."

"_What!"_

"If she knows there is a book, and that it is lost, she will go and try to find it instead of myself. That way, it will give me time to not only move everything to a different location, but also time to place all my matters in order. By the time she finds exactly what I have, I will be gone."

"You haven't changed." Yusuf smirked, already making his way to the border of the warehouse. "Still as scheming as always. Then I shall do so, and I shall also keep an eye on your Keeper and the other. My own has been placed to guard her and keep open eyes and ears, just in case something is to occur."

There was a pan of sudden guilt in his stomach and he shook his head. "No, you do not need to-."

But Yusuf waved him away, smirk on his face. "Don't tell me _Il Mentore_ is worried about me! I've already died once, and if necessary, I will do so again. Desmond," A hand was placed on his shoulder; the worry was clear on Yusuf's face. "On the risk of being called a stalker, I have seen this young man makes you happy."

A slight shake and a squeeze to his shoulder as he kept speaking kept him from making a smart ass comment. "For once, I think you deserve to be left out of the Order as you've so desperately tried to all this years."

"You are too good to me, my friend." He placed a hand on Yusuf's shoulder as well and the other scoffed, smirking again.

"I am your _only_ friend. Well, there's Mario, but he's family to you so he doesn't count." He let go and made a mock salute. "Safety and Peace, _arkadeshim_."

He was gone before Desmond answered back. "Safety and Peace, my friend."

* * *

"We need to talk."

Shaun gives a hum of agreement, though he's not exactly paying attention. These last few weeks before he gets back to class he's been searching for those dates. Desmond seems to be busy with something, though at least this time he's been told beforehand and there's a constant string of messages to keep them in contact until he's done.

His yelp is justified, (very manly if he may say so himself) when the lid of his laptop is almost slammed on his fingers.

"_What the bloody hell!"_

"You weren't listening man." Rebecca has a hand still on the lid, the other on her waist and there's this serious frown on her face. No, honestly, she's actually being serious.

Maybe it's a sign of the impending apocalypse. Maybe it's a sign that she's off her rocker, though that part he's always been sure of.

"Fine, you have my attention." Not entirely, but he's not about to tell her that.

"We need to talk about Desmond."

Suddenly the conversation seems to be going wrong. "What about him?"

The ways she bites her lip, as if nervous and somehow (God forbid) self-conscious of what she's about to tell him, he doesn't like it one bit. "You know, at first, I was pretty glad you two met, and that he took you out and that he finally fucked you-"

"Must you be always so crude!" Please, what's left of his dignity, spare it.

"-And managed to pull the stick you had in your ass-"

"I did not have a stick in my ass!" He's never going to stop defending himself, because he can't help but wonder how much worse she'd speak if he didn't.

"-and he actually got you to cheer up. But, well, I kinda did a background check on him."

Those thick silences described in cheesy romantic novels (that he _does not_ read), the type that you could almost slice with a knife? This one is one of them.

"You _what?_ I thought I told you-!"

But she merely waves him away, like he's five and she's his mum, explaining to him why he can't have ice cream before lunch. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you said. But shit man, you never know what sort of fucking sexual predators, or serial killers are on the loose. More so now that the police says there's actually one roaming the streets."

"I fail to see the correlation between your paranoia and _breaching the personal privacy of my boyfriend!"_ He's felt embarrassment for Rebecca's more protective streaks but this one almost borders on seppuku lines.

But she seems determined on this matter and turns his seat to face her, leaning uncomfortably close to him. "You know, if he had something along the lines of a parking ticket, maybe an assault charge because he got into a brawl, I wouldn't have cared at all, Shaun, he's got the tats to prove he's served time."

He splutters with the efficiency of a choking fish. "He is not a delinquent, and if he was he'd have told me-."

"That's not the point, Shaun. The point is; I found nothing."

Again with the thick silence. Though not as thick as real butter, more like a margarine sort of thickness. That was by far, the stupidest line of thought he's had in some time. Desmond is rubbing off on him. Speaking of, he now has to defend the limey git.

"Then _why_ are we having this conversation?" The anger and defensiveness he feels are very appropriate. "And if you tell me it's suspicious that I found a man with no criminal record and shares some of my interests, then by the Queen, I will bloody well _punch_ you."

She has this look in her face, like weighting the consequences between starting an actual physical fight with him (he's ashamed to admit he would lose. She knows Krag Maga, of all things) or telling him what she knows. By her sigh, he knows she's decided for the latter. And thank goodness, he doesn't think he'd have liked being in a headlock where oxygen is denied from him until he faints.

"Shaun, listen to me. I found _nothing_ on him." She finally let go of the chair, eyes filled with worry. "And I do mean _nothing_. No social security number, no tax info, no hospital records, fuck, I didn't even find a _birth certificate._" Now she's pacing the room, one hand on her head, her headphones oddly missing.

"So? Maybe he wasn't born here." It's a good defense. Yes, it's a perfect defense. Except, he's starting to doubt himself.

But she stops pacing and glares at him. "You're not listening, man! I searched _everywhere!_ I literally spent my entire vacation digging through useless information, and not once did the name 'Desmond Miles' appear anywhere!"

"To begin with, you shouldn't have gone sticking your nose where I specifically bloody well asked you _not_ to search." His voice is rising with each word. For some reason he feels betrayed, even if the act was not done against him. "To follow, have you even thought that maybe he's some sort of, I don't know, I'm bloody pulling strings here, a secret agent or something? And that he _has_ to keep himself off the bloody radar and you've just blown his cover!"

She snorted at this and shook her head. "Nah, man, not that either. I got some friends who know about those things, and no-way Jose. Now, I didn't tell you this at the beginning because it didn't seem like it was important, but when he came in, he asked to be let in."

This was getting ridiculous the more he listened. "I'm sorry if being _polite_ seems strange to a person of your caliber." Except, now he was thinking of other things; like the fact that they hadn't traveled together; his sudden disappearances; and all that money, where does it come from?

She was smiling, like someone who's found gold, or even better, a black diamond. "No, no, I mean, he wouldn't move in, wouldn't, like something was physically stopping him from coming into the house." She raised a finger and left, obviously to her room.

It'd be a lie if he said he wasn't starting to get interested. Why did Desmond not have any data? What sort of person did you have to be to be virtually nonexistent in an era where you could find your information via the internet in less than five seconds? It was all swimming in his head, and he was finding more things that didn't add up. All those things he had, from centuries ago, where had he been able to acquire them?

Rebecca came back with her laptop and opened the lid, showing him a webpage and he stared at it, face blank, all his worries from a second ago gone.

"Seriously? This is, according to you, the reason why he doesn't show up in your little stalker search?"

"It makes complete sense! He won't come out at day, he _had_ to get invited in, and have you ever seen him eat _anything_? All I ever see him do is drink stuff, but never eat any actual food!"

There, on the laptop's screen, in ridiculous letters, is the word '_vampire_'. He smacks his forehead, as if it were obvious, the finding of the century, the answer to the mystery that was Desmond Miles. "Yes! Of course! Why didn't I ever think of that?"

Is he being sarcastic? _Of course he's being bloody sarcastic_! This is the stupidest thing she's ever come up with!

"Man, I'm being serious! Think about it!" She's not smiling. Dear lord, she _is_ being serious. "He says he's allergic to garlic! We haven't seen him in daylight not once! He doesn't eat, he walks too quietly, his reflexes are too fast and his eyes do that funky thing where they change colors! Perfect fucking sense!"

He has to get away from this. She's been playing too much World of Warcraft. Or perhaps drank too much Monster, who the blood hell knows? He gets back to his laptop, shaking his head, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses and trying to fight back the migraine caused by the sheer idiocy she's spouting.

"You don't believe me! Fine then! Here's this! Invite him to have dinner and I'll prove he _is_ a vampire!"

He glares at her. "No." He snaps, trying (read failing) to get back to his research, because if he doesn't put his foot down this moment, she'll start doing something even more idiotic.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her hand try to get his cellphone. "Rebecca!"

They're fighting over it now, though it's very ridiculous. Her, she's dancing out of his arms reach while she tries every underhanded trick she knows, while he's pretty much scratching at the back of her hand and punching and kicking at any chance he gets, even going so far as to pull her hair. Unfortunately, Becca is queen of cheating fights, so he's relegated to watching from the floor when she elbows him on the stomach, glasses askew, clothes ruffled, and a bruised ego as she sends Desmond a text.

He makes another go at her and she raises her leg. He flinches, knowing fully well what that foot can do.

"Don't make me do it, Shaun." She tilts her head, leg like a spring ready to kick out. Like some bloody fucking _ass_ because that's what she's acting like.

They stay like that, at a stalemate and he curses his weakness. They both start when the cellphone hums again and he groans. Had she been writing in the ensuing chaos? Her cheer confirms it.

"Tomorrow at 10! Alright! I gotta go get some things ready for the vampire test, meanwhile search something to cook." She throws him his cellphone and he gawks.

"_What!_ Why me!" This is not fair in a thousand ways.

"Because _you_ invited him over, duh. Don't let him know what we're doing!"

He's still standing in the middle of the floor, looking at the door, then at the little screen with a time and a confirmation for Becca's insane plan. Everything was going so well. Why did the universe like to use him as their personal toy? Now he has to find a way to subtly foil every one of Rebecca's schemes to prove that Desmond is, instead of a poor bloke with skin disease and a blotchy record, a vampire.

Why hasn't the Earth swallowed him yet?


End file.
